Gah! I hate research.
Ok, so Gilly has reached the shore of the mirror version of Antarctica. I have decided they take a ship through the Indian Ocean, mainly because my research has uncovered many wonderful things in that ocean that are better than anything I could have come up with on my own, like 155 foot Portuguese man o' war and flying fish.
So, yesterday I spent like five hours on google and bing, looking up things like colossal squid, the Sunda Deep, ocean floor topography, trade winds in the Indian ocean, animals native to Somalia, lost expeditions to the Antarctic and cross sections of sailing ships.
I had a massive headache when I got off and no clarity. G.D. it, you'd think somewhere on the g.d. Internet there would be a diagram of a sailing ship; a usable diagram, so that in describing my ship, I won't make some ridiculous error of judgement that would cause even the most amateur of sailors to cough up their coffee in agonies of hilarity upon reading that chapter.
But that's not the only thing that's driving me crazy at this bloody point in the story. Ok, so daemons live in Touzainanboku. Other things live in Kagamihara, along with corrupt Daemons who have build strongholds down there, little territories, mainly by cities where they can take advantage of all that terrible spiritual energy. (Not that cities are evil by nature, it's just that everything there is so condensed. They're like those underwater gas vents, pouring out heat and chemicals.)
The "other things" that are native to the Kagamihara are like the Kringmerk, native tribes that live in the edges, where it's peaceful.
The Kringmerk are dogs. Are the other tribes going to be animals as well? I sort of figured so. In fact, the main tribe in India is going to be based off the Langur monkey, which are native to India and are marvelous, solemn faced creatures with great dignity (at least in pictures) and a silver fur and wise, black eyes. Maybe their mountain guide will be a Langur monkey whirling dervish.
Anyway, I can't get there, damn it, because what animal is capable to sailing a bloody ship? That's right- none. So who's sailing the bloody ship? I don't want two tribes of monkeys.
So, what other creatures live on the Kagamihara, can tie rope, can and want to sail a ship, have a desire to trade with multiple tribes and would be likely to make port in Antarctica?
...and I have no idea.
I keep thinking, "Who cares? Just come up with something! Make crap up! What does it matter?"
That's the problem with researching. I start to get all stickler about the details. Like, all the fresh water on the real Antarctica is frozen solid; in fact it's a very arid climate. Water has to be thawed. How the hell are dogs going to thaw water? How do they start fires?
So, then I mix fact and fiction. Fact: there are volcanoes and frozen fresh water lakes buried deep under the ice packs on Antarctica. Fiction: one exists near the coast, active enough to keep a fresh water lake thawed and the Kringmerk have their traditional home base there. Naturally. They eat seals and penguins and they have no fire. They don't need it; they have thick coats.
What does it matter, anyway? But it does, somehow. I don't want a reader to have to dumb down in order to follow my story. I want my fantasy to follow certain, guiding rules of logic. I want it to form a pattern.
Basically, I'm going to have to make up a humanoid tribe that sails. That's all there is to it. Nothing else can handle that amount of rope. Which means I'm breaking my rule of animal tribes on Kagamihara.
Unless the sailers are a separate tribe of daemons who love the ocean so much they abandoned the mountains. Which would explain how Tenshio knew it was likely a ship would be at the Kringmerk's bay.
And it has a kind of symmetry: ocean daemons and mountain daemons- kind of like two ends of the spectrum. The ocean daemons keep the waterways clear of the corrupting influence of fallen daemon on the landmasses. (Though there must be coastal fortresses that are largely unassailable, but that's a thought for another day.)
They're going to be like pirate daemons. All fierce and casual and mostly silent, with rings in their ears and turbans... maybe. Maybe turbans. But baggy pants, certainly. And bare, clawed feet. And they will hold a cutlass in their teeth; I don't care it if is overused. Not all the time, though. That would get tiresome. Not to mention, bad for one's teeth.
Damn. That's it.
I spent all yesterday agonizing about this. I gave myself a massive headache and couldn't even enjoy the Elisabeth Olgilvie books that arrived that day by mail.
Ok, I feel better now. Back to writing.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
June 27th
Thank God for Monday. This weekend was so busy. We had a pool party on Saturday, so there was much cleaning and preparing to do early on Saturday and the guests stayed until eight pm.
As usual, I was my spaz-o-rific self. Only more so, I'm afraid, because the place I go in order to write Torii doesn't exactly get folded completely away when I'm not writing it, if you know what I mean. So I was super weird and awkward. The only good thing is that I was completely resigned and therefore, sort of cheerfully weird.
I think everyone had a good time; I know the guys did. There were two wives, one I knew from Kentucky and one I had never met before. Naturally, the Kentucky wife and I were more comfortable with each other, which sort of left the other wife out. I noticed this happening and then earnestly tried to include the wife in our conversation, knowing exactly how that feels, having been in her position many times before. I don't know how well I managed it.
I got to hold two babies, one two months and the other five months, which caused me no pain at all and a great deal of pleasure. I seem to be in a completely different place concerning children. It still stings when it occurs to me that we are not conceiving; like, what is wrong with us, exactly? Why not us? It's sort of a passing pain. And sometimes I remember what it was we thought our life would be like, and I feel a certain kind of grief.
Most of the time, however, I'm content. The life I'm living now would be absolutely impossible with a child. There would be no quiet, no time to oneself, no more clean house. There would be no writing. I'm content to be doing this with my life right now.
Later on, we'll adopt. It doesn't matter how old we'll be when we adopt: aging eggs have nothing to do with that. Though, I'm supposed to be signing myself into the doctor's program here so that we can get back into the whole infertility thing.
Anyway, so on Saturday night we had just collapsed onto the bed when Keith got a call from the MPs. A friend of his had been drinking and then had gotten into a major fight. The MPs said either Keith could come pick him up and take him to our house to sober up, or he'd have to spend the night in a barracks room.
So, there we were, out on a little evening jaunt. Before we got there, his wife called and said they'd moved him to the MP office, though we could still pick him up. The problem was, we had no idea where that was.
We asked the gate guard and got almost there, then got turned around and headed all the way back, past that gate and to a dinky little gate in the middle of nowhere. There are no such gates in Ft. Carson, or Ft. Knox that I remember, but Ft. Benning is just full of them.
Make the wrong turn, and they can be staring you down before you know it. They lead nowhere. They are not manned. They have those spike strips laid down, so you can go out, but then never return. You are just ejected, as it were, from paradise, and made to find your own way home.
I said, "The hell with this." and pulled off the road and two MP cars drove on past me. Boy, was that ever eerie. I knew cars were behind me, but I had no idea they were police cars. Thank goodness I didn't know, my anxiety was already high enough as it was.
We turned around and asked at a minimart and headed off again into the night and came to the older part of post. That's the part that looks like the show "Army Wives." It's full of old white stuccoed houses and plaques and the speed limit is 15 miles per hour for miles. And you'd better keep to it, because you don't want some fullbird colonel's wizened wife on the phone to the MPs complaining about the rabble that's speeding down the road at an unthinkable thirty miles per hour, threatening children, toy dogs and patriotic parades.
Anyway. So we crawled along. We were just completely lost, just turning at random along this maze of tiny roads with massive speed bumps, past houses that all looked the same because... wait... they are exactly the same. The same houses, the same parks, the same ghostly trees, trimmed bushes, the same plaques. Over and over and over again, round and round we go.
Finally Keith called the MP back. The MP said it was too late anyway, his boss had come along and made plans for the guy, plans which did not include him getting off the hook. Ironically, mere moments later, Keith exclaimed "I know where we are!" and that is how we found our way home.
Then yesterday, in the pool, Keith said, "Hun, I'm sorry I get so angry at you when you're driving."
And I was all, "That's ok; I know it's because you're stressed out by the circumstances. It's not really about my driving."
A pause, while several expressions passed over his face. "Right...." he said at last. "That's exactly the way it is. It's the circumstances. But I'm telling you, if you were my soldier..." another long pause, "....God help you," he finished solemnly.
As usual, I was my spaz-o-rific self. Only more so, I'm afraid, because the place I go in order to write Torii doesn't exactly get folded completely away when I'm not writing it, if you know what I mean. So I was super weird and awkward. The only good thing is that I was completely resigned and therefore, sort of cheerfully weird.
I think everyone had a good time; I know the guys did. There were two wives, one I knew from Kentucky and one I had never met before. Naturally, the Kentucky wife and I were more comfortable with each other, which sort of left the other wife out. I noticed this happening and then earnestly tried to include the wife in our conversation, knowing exactly how that feels, having been in her position many times before. I don't know how well I managed it.
I got to hold two babies, one two months and the other five months, which caused me no pain at all and a great deal of pleasure. I seem to be in a completely different place concerning children. It still stings when it occurs to me that we are not conceiving; like, what is wrong with us, exactly? Why not us? It's sort of a passing pain. And sometimes I remember what it was we thought our life would be like, and I feel a certain kind of grief.
Most of the time, however, I'm content. The life I'm living now would be absolutely impossible with a child. There would be no quiet, no time to oneself, no more clean house. There would be no writing. I'm content to be doing this with my life right now.
Later on, we'll adopt. It doesn't matter how old we'll be when we adopt: aging eggs have nothing to do with that. Though, I'm supposed to be signing myself into the doctor's program here so that we can get back into the whole infertility thing.
Anyway, so on Saturday night we had just collapsed onto the bed when Keith got a call from the MPs. A friend of his had been drinking and then had gotten into a major fight. The MPs said either Keith could come pick him up and take him to our house to sober up, or he'd have to spend the night in a barracks room.
So, there we were, out on a little evening jaunt. Before we got there, his wife called and said they'd moved him to the MP office, though we could still pick him up. The problem was, we had no idea where that was.
We asked the gate guard and got almost there, then got turned around and headed all the way back, past that gate and to a dinky little gate in the middle of nowhere. There are no such gates in Ft. Carson, or Ft. Knox that I remember, but Ft. Benning is just full of them.
Make the wrong turn, and they can be staring you down before you know it. They lead nowhere. They are not manned. They have those spike strips laid down, so you can go out, but then never return. You are just ejected, as it were, from paradise, and made to find your own way home.
I said, "The hell with this." and pulled off the road and two MP cars drove on past me. Boy, was that ever eerie. I knew cars were behind me, but I had no idea they were police cars. Thank goodness I didn't know, my anxiety was already high enough as it was.
We turned around and asked at a minimart and headed off again into the night and came to the older part of post. That's the part that looks like the show "Army Wives." It's full of old white stuccoed houses and plaques and the speed limit is 15 miles per hour for miles. And you'd better keep to it, because you don't want some fullbird colonel's wizened wife on the phone to the MPs complaining about the rabble that's speeding down the road at an unthinkable thirty miles per hour, threatening children, toy dogs and patriotic parades.
Anyway. So we crawled along. We were just completely lost, just turning at random along this maze of tiny roads with massive speed bumps, past houses that all looked the same because... wait... they are exactly the same. The same houses, the same parks, the same ghostly trees, trimmed bushes, the same plaques. Over and over and over again, round and round we go.
Finally Keith called the MP back. The MP said it was too late anyway, his boss had come along and made plans for the guy, plans which did not include him getting off the hook. Ironically, mere moments later, Keith exclaimed "I know where we are!" and that is how we found our way home.
Then yesterday, in the pool, Keith said, "Hun, I'm sorry I get so angry at you when you're driving."
And I was all, "That's ok; I know it's because you're stressed out by the circumstances. It's not really about my driving."
A pause, while several expressions passed over his face. "Right...." he said at last. "That's exactly the way it is. It's the circumstances. But I'm telling you, if you were my soldier..." another long pause, "....God help you," he finished solemnly.
Friday, June 24, 2011
June 24th
Excerpt:
By the time they stopped for a mid-day break, Gilly was glad enough to crawl back inside the sled; her arms and legs ached from holding on to the heavenly lion. She curled up amid the furs with Plum Blossom and half slept, half dreamed.
She saw a forest, a primeval, impenetrable forest where the ancient trees rotted as they stood and no life curled up from the soggy ground below. There was no room for growth, everything was choked and clotted with darkness; the reaching arms of dead branches formed a prickly barrier in every direction.
As she watched, she saw something move, a bulky shape that took form as she saw it. It was as though it felt her looking. It was as if, without knowing it, she had called its name. It stood, its motions at first slow and awkward, but gradually becoming more and move coordinated. It was a towering, slope-shouldered shape with long, reaching arms and a craggy, creased brow. It began to walk toward her.
Terror poured down her throat like cold water and settled heavily in her stomach. Her hands tingled from it. She wanted to scream, but she could not. It was as though she were wearing someone else’s skin, trapped in some other little girl’s body. She hated the flesh of this little girl; she wanted to tear it off with her fingernails. It was like a living casket, something she would be buried in, leagues under ground.
Tenshio, crouched behind the sled, felt the disturbance in the energy and straightened. He called out over the crush and hiss of the runners on the snow and the dogs slowed and stopped. As soon as they stopped running, the large canines threw themselves down, panting heavily.
“Bathroom break!” Pidguyok found breath to happily declare.
Aksarpok looked around at Tenshio in mild inquiry, but Tenshio was intent on reaching into the sled. He pulled a tense and shaking Gilly out of the enclosed space. She clung to him like a limpet.
“I saw it, I saw it,” she managed to get out, around her chattering teeth. “It’s coming for her.”
“For whom?” asked Tenshio, his voice low and quiet.
“For the dead girl,” whispered Gilly.
Tenshio put his head close to hers. “Where is the dead girl now?” he asked, very softly.
“She’s running away,” whispered Gilly. “Very quickly. But she can’t get away. She can’t run fast enough.”
“But you are safe.”
She nestled in against him. “What about her?” she whispered.
“Perhaps she could come with us.”
“Maybe. But what if she eats me?” Gilly breathed. “She’s bad. She’s a bad, bad girl.”
“I won’t let her. I won’t let her eat you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Tenshio shifted his weight slightly, the snow crunching under his boots. He tucked her hood up around her flyaway dark hair. The sun sent long, orange rays of light over the western ridge that they had been following. It gilded all the curves of the snow packed landscape. “In fact,” he said. “I don’t think she’s a bad girl at all. Not really.”
“She is,” Gilly insisted. “She is a bad girl. She’s the dog girl.”
“I don’t think so,” Tenshio said gently. “I think she is just a little girl that got caught by the dark and couldn’t find her way out.”
“Maybe,” Gilly allowed. For a moment, she played with the wooden toggle that fastened his hood and then looked up. “I don’t want to ride in there anymore.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” said Tenshio.
By the time they stopped for a mid-day break, Gilly was glad enough to crawl back inside the sled; her arms and legs ached from holding on to the heavenly lion. She curled up amid the furs with Plum Blossom and half slept, half dreamed.
She saw a forest, a primeval, impenetrable forest where the ancient trees rotted as they stood and no life curled up from the soggy ground below. There was no room for growth, everything was choked and clotted with darkness; the reaching arms of dead branches formed a prickly barrier in every direction.
As she watched, she saw something move, a bulky shape that took form as she saw it. It was as though it felt her looking. It was as if, without knowing it, she had called its name. It stood, its motions at first slow and awkward, but gradually becoming more and move coordinated. It was a towering, slope-shouldered shape with long, reaching arms and a craggy, creased brow. It began to walk toward her.
Terror poured down her throat like cold water and settled heavily in her stomach. Her hands tingled from it. She wanted to scream, but she could not. It was as though she were wearing someone else’s skin, trapped in some other little girl’s body. She hated the flesh of this little girl; she wanted to tear it off with her fingernails. It was like a living casket, something she would be buried in, leagues under ground.
Tenshio, crouched behind the sled, felt the disturbance in the energy and straightened. He called out over the crush and hiss of the runners on the snow and the dogs slowed and stopped. As soon as they stopped running, the large canines threw themselves down, panting heavily.
“Bathroom break!” Pidguyok found breath to happily declare.
Aksarpok looked around at Tenshio in mild inquiry, but Tenshio was intent on reaching into the sled. He pulled a tense and shaking Gilly out of the enclosed space. She clung to him like a limpet.
“I saw it, I saw it,” she managed to get out, around her chattering teeth. “It’s coming for her.”
“For whom?” asked Tenshio, his voice low and quiet.
“For the dead girl,” whispered Gilly.
Tenshio put his head close to hers. “Where is the dead girl now?” he asked, very softly.
“She’s running away,” whispered Gilly. “Very quickly. But she can’t get away. She can’t run fast enough.”
“But you are safe.”
She nestled in against him. “What about her?” she whispered.
“Perhaps she could come with us.”
“Maybe. But what if she eats me?” Gilly breathed. “She’s bad. She’s a bad, bad girl.”
“I won’t let her. I won’t let her eat you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Tenshio shifted his weight slightly, the snow crunching under his boots. He tucked her hood up around her flyaway dark hair. The sun sent long, orange rays of light over the western ridge that they had been following. It gilded all the curves of the snow packed landscape. “In fact,” he said. “I don’t think she’s a bad girl at all. Not really.”
“She is,” Gilly insisted. “She is a bad girl. She’s the dog girl.”
“I don’t think so,” Tenshio said gently. “I think she is just a little girl that got caught by the dark and couldn’t find her way out.”
“Maybe,” Gilly allowed. For a moment, she played with the wooden toggle that fastened his hood and then looked up. “I don’t want to ride in there anymore.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” said Tenshio.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
June 23rd
Yesterday, when I called Keith around eight or so in the morning, as I usually do, he did not pick up. That seemed strange, but sometimes he is busy or whatever. So I waited for him to call back. He did not. I didn't hear from him until two in the afternoon.
It turned out he had had another episode of heat stroke, the fourth this year and the second one to land him in the hospital. Once you have one, you're more susceptible to another, and so on and so forth.
But the man doesn't learn. He still thinks sheer will power will overcome the laws of nature, and so ends up flat on his back on gurney being fed fluids through an I.V. line. Various tests they took did not come out looking good.
He's at the doctor's today; a miracle in itself. Usually he never appears for the follow up visit. But I threatened him with all kinds of death and destruction if he didn't go, so he's sitting in the waiting room as I type. I have a feeling that a major change of diet is coming our way.
So, yesterday my younger brother called me for the sole reason of telling me how awesome the Ceallach story was. He said he couldn't just write it on my facebook wall, he had to tell me over the phone. I was so thrilled I could hardly string two words together.
He said he stayed up for two and a half hours the night before, reading it, and then read for another hour that morning and that his eyes hurt from the computer screen. He said that at certain points, he actually got goosebumps, that at points the dialogue between Ceallach and Phillipa made him laugh out loud and that the battle scene was epic.
He said he enjoyed how I mixed in a little Irish mythology but sort of did my own thing with it. At first, he said, he wondered if it was just going to be a love story, but no; it got totally awesome.
These were the words of my youngest brother. I had a real hard time trying to concentrate after that. My whole family are avid readers. They know good writing. He would not have called me up if he didn't actually think it was really good. Besides, his praise was too specific; it was not the damned-with-faint-praise experience that writers so dread.
He has yet to read the fourth section, which is nothing like the middle two. I'm very interested to have some feedback on that part. I have a feeling it needs major revision. It certainly doesn't have the suspense and action of the middle two; it's just Phillipa managing to put her life together in Ceallach's absence.
But anyway, after that I started thinking more and more about how it would feel if I actually do get published. I thought about how it would feel if I could see my book, all bound, with the title (whatever that will be) in the front and my name, and all my words printed out neatly inside on the pages; reams and reams of my own words, poured out and captured.
I kind of want to be a slightly obscure author. I want my thick, paperback books to be sort of floating around, at garage sales and in summer cabins. And unlikely people will pick them up out of boredom and be suddenly entranced and transported. I want it to feel as though my book were speaking just to them, as though it had been sort of lying in wait for them.
Between worrying about Keith and elation over my feedback, I didn't settle into really writing until later in the afternoon. I've been crawling along fairly slowly at this part, which shouldn't be happening, because it's just the first part of their journey and it should just be flowing.
But I was stuck, and that usually means one of three things:
I'm going in the wrong direction, thematically, or with character development or because I mismanaged a transition.
I have to go back and fix something in the first part of the story that I've been putting off.
I need to stop and hammer out more plot so I have a better idea of where I'm going.
It happened to be the middle one. I've been putting off adding in the nastier parts of the story, not without reason, naturally. So I spent yesterday afternoon adding in the sickness and dark to the story.
I have a feeling that's the way this story will progress: I'll write it out describing the good and then go back and layer in the bad. It's easier that way.
It turned out he had had another episode of heat stroke, the fourth this year and the second one to land him in the hospital. Once you have one, you're more susceptible to another, and so on and so forth.
But the man doesn't learn. He still thinks sheer will power will overcome the laws of nature, and so ends up flat on his back on gurney being fed fluids through an I.V. line. Various tests they took did not come out looking good.
He's at the doctor's today; a miracle in itself. Usually he never appears for the follow up visit. But I threatened him with all kinds of death and destruction if he didn't go, so he's sitting in the waiting room as I type. I have a feeling that a major change of diet is coming our way.
So, yesterday my younger brother called me for the sole reason of telling me how awesome the Ceallach story was. He said he couldn't just write it on my facebook wall, he had to tell me over the phone. I was so thrilled I could hardly string two words together.
He said he stayed up for two and a half hours the night before, reading it, and then read for another hour that morning and that his eyes hurt from the computer screen. He said that at certain points, he actually got goosebumps, that at points the dialogue between Ceallach and Phillipa made him laugh out loud and that the battle scene was epic.
He said he enjoyed how I mixed in a little Irish mythology but sort of did my own thing with it. At first, he said, he wondered if it was just going to be a love story, but no; it got totally awesome.
These were the words of my youngest brother. I had a real hard time trying to concentrate after that. My whole family are avid readers. They know good writing. He would not have called me up if he didn't actually think it was really good. Besides, his praise was too specific; it was not the damned-with-faint-praise experience that writers so dread.
He has yet to read the fourth section, which is nothing like the middle two. I'm very interested to have some feedback on that part. I have a feeling it needs major revision. It certainly doesn't have the suspense and action of the middle two; it's just Phillipa managing to put her life together in Ceallach's absence.
But anyway, after that I started thinking more and more about how it would feel if I actually do get published. I thought about how it would feel if I could see my book, all bound, with the title (whatever that will be) in the front and my name, and all my words printed out neatly inside on the pages; reams and reams of my own words, poured out and captured.
I kind of want to be a slightly obscure author. I want my thick, paperback books to be sort of floating around, at garage sales and in summer cabins. And unlikely people will pick them up out of boredom and be suddenly entranced and transported. I want it to feel as though my book were speaking just to them, as though it had been sort of lying in wait for them.
Between worrying about Keith and elation over my feedback, I didn't settle into really writing until later in the afternoon. I've been crawling along fairly slowly at this part, which shouldn't be happening, because it's just the first part of their journey and it should just be flowing.
But I was stuck, and that usually means one of three things:
I'm going in the wrong direction, thematically, or with character development or because I mismanaged a transition.
I have to go back and fix something in the first part of the story that I've been putting off.
I need to stop and hammer out more plot so I have a better idea of where I'm going.
It happened to be the middle one. I've been putting off adding in the nastier parts of the story, not without reason, naturally. So I spent yesterday afternoon adding in the sickness and dark to the story.
I have a feeling that's the way this story will progress: I'll write it out describing the good and then go back and layer in the bad. It's easier that way.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
June 22nd
Excerpt:
Tenshio knelt beside Gilly. He reached inside her hood and pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth. Under the hood, her eyes were very large.
“Now you will meet some of the tribe of the Kringmerk,” said Tenshio to her.
“Who are they?” came Gilly’s voice, made fuzzy by the scarf.
“You will see,” said Tenshio. “It does not take them long to come when anyone has stepped foot onto their territory.”
Gilly thought they were waves of snow at first. They came, low to the ground and swift, pushing through the snow drifts and half covered by them. She didn’t realize they were beasts until she saw the living color of their eyes, ice blue and brown; she didn’t realize they were dogs until they were sitting a few feet from her, panting, having arrived in a flurry of snow.
There were five of them, all the size of small ponies, clothed in thick silvery gray and white fur, with thick muffs of fur around their necks and chest. Their tails curled up and over their hind ends in plumes, their ears pointed forward; their teeth were long and sharp. In their white faces, the black ring around their eyes only emphasized the vivid blues, greens and amber colors within them.
They wore harnesses of leather and dyed wool. The leader’s harness was done in scarlet and gold, the others were in the colors of purple, blue, green and teal. Tassels hung where the straps of the harness met and crossed on their chests.
As soon as they stopped running, two of them began tussling with each other, ignoring the visitors, growling and yipping. The leader sat down before the travelers, flanked by the remaining two dogs, one male and one female. They tipped their heads and whined softly, their bright eyes roving curiously over the creatures before them.
“Well, well, well,” said the lead dog with a throaty chuckle. “What a top notch crew this is! All this heavenly authority will make me twitchy; I’d better watch my damn mouth. What in the hell could bring an Adlartok lord and a Mianersiwok down from their nests? Must be something to do with this niviarsok, the bright one. How she shines!” exclaimed the leader in a deep, rough voice.
Before Tenshio could reply, the dog twisted around and snarled out thickly. “Pidguyok! Angutiriyok! Cut the crap!”
With a whine, the two wrestling dogs fell apart and shook themselves free of the clotted snow.
“Yes, sir,” they said, grinning.
“He started it, sir,” added Pidguyok, a heavy set dog with a scar over his blue eye. He tipped his head toward his fellow.
“The hell I did, you impudent pup!” snapped Angutiriyok, equally powerful looking, with a grizzled muzzle and half an ear missing.
The lead dog cleared his throat and turned back to the travelers, expectantly.
“This child is a living human; we must take her further into the north,” answered Tenshio. “We ask assistance from the Issorartuyok and his contingent in passing over the southern wastes. We must reach the port city at the Haraumi.”
“Into the north?” repeated the Issorartuyok, in open wonder. “Why the hell take a living human into the heart of the wastes? You’ll have to tell me a better story than that, Watcher.” The Issorartuyok grinned, revealing the roots of yellowed, sharpened teeth. “We have a long and honored tradition of story-telling among my people; it’ll pay your way. Don’t be stingy, now.”
“As you wish,” answered Tenshio. “I will pay the price of passage; far be it from me to disrespect any tradition of your mighty tribe, honored Issorartuyok.”
“Such smooth talkers all you people are,” replied Aksarpok, his bright blue and brown eyes sparkling. “I always feel so damned high and mighty after talking to one of you guys; my mate’ll have a hell of a time putting me back in my place.”
Excerpt:
The two dogs which had flanked Aksarpok peeled away from him and trotted through the snow to wait their turn to be harnessed. Pialayok and Okrarpok were swing dogs, responsible for turning the team and the sled. Lastly, Aksarpok paced to the head of the line and allowed himself to be attached to the head of the tug line.
Okrarpok, a limber, long legged swing dog with two bright, pale blue eyes, was unable to control himself; the anticipation of the run was too much. He let out a series of high, excited barks, which infected Pidguyok and threatened to turn the entire team into a chaos of over excited dogs.
Tenshio stepped back quickly, putting himself between the team and Gilly, who had been watching curiously.
Aksarpok swung around and snapped viciously in Okrarpok’s face. “Pull yourself together, man!” he snarled, his two front legs braced, his tail rigid.
“Yes, sir,” whined Okrarpok, crouching low, his tail between his legs. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just so excited, sir.”
“Rookie,” said Pialayok, looking at her harness fellow in exasperation. Though she was trembling with the anticipation of the run, she knew better than to voice it.
“I’m so excited!” howled Pidguyok in a cracking falsetto. “And I just can’t hide it!” His eyes had a laughing gleam, his large feet danced rapidly in the snow. “I’m about to lose control and I think I like it!”
The dog team let out a loud, collective groan.
“Oh, for the love of god, don’t start singing that pamma nonsense!” cried Pialayok.
“You sing one more syllable and I’ll pull your tongue right out your throat,” growled Angutiriyok.
“Geez! ...and here I thought it was funny,” the younger dog protested, laughing. “If I didn't have a real well developed sense of self, I might be a little butt hurt right about now."
Tenshio knelt beside Gilly. He reached inside her hood and pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth. Under the hood, her eyes were very large.
“Now you will meet some of the tribe of the Kringmerk,” said Tenshio to her.
“Who are they?” came Gilly’s voice, made fuzzy by the scarf.
“You will see,” said Tenshio. “It does not take them long to come when anyone has stepped foot onto their territory.”
Gilly thought they were waves of snow at first. They came, low to the ground and swift, pushing through the snow drifts and half covered by them. She didn’t realize they were beasts until she saw the living color of their eyes, ice blue and brown; she didn’t realize they were dogs until they were sitting a few feet from her, panting, having arrived in a flurry of snow.
There were five of them, all the size of small ponies, clothed in thick silvery gray and white fur, with thick muffs of fur around their necks and chest. Their tails curled up and over their hind ends in plumes, their ears pointed forward; their teeth were long and sharp. In their white faces, the black ring around their eyes only emphasized the vivid blues, greens and amber colors within them.
They wore harnesses of leather and dyed wool. The leader’s harness was done in scarlet and gold, the others were in the colors of purple, blue, green and teal. Tassels hung where the straps of the harness met and crossed on their chests.
As soon as they stopped running, two of them began tussling with each other, ignoring the visitors, growling and yipping. The leader sat down before the travelers, flanked by the remaining two dogs, one male and one female. They tipped their heads and whined softly, their bright eyes roving curiously over the creatures before them.
“Well, well, well,” said the lead dog with a throaty chuckle. “What a top notch crew this is! All this heavenly authority will make me twitchy; I’d better watch my damn mouth. What in the hell could bring an Adlartok lord and a Mianersiwok down from their nests? Must be something to do with this niviarsok, the bright one. How she shines!” exclaimed the leader in a deep, rough voice.
Before Tenshio could reply, the dog twisted around and snarled out thickly. “Pidguyok! Angutiriyok! Cut the crap!”
With a whine, the two wrestling dogs fell apart and shook themselves free of the clotted snow.
“Yes, sir,” they said, grinning.
“He started it, sir,” added Pidguyok, a heavy set dog with a scar over his blue eye. He tipped his head toward his fellow.
“The hell I did, you impudent pup!” snapped Angutiriyok, equally powerful looking, with a grizzled muzzle and half an ear missing.
The lead dog cleared his throat and turned back to the travelers, expectantly.
“This child is a living human; we must take her further into the north,” answered Tenshio. “We ask assistance from the Issorartuyok and his contingent in passing over the southern wastes. We must reach the port city at the Haraumi.”
“Into the north?” repeated the Issorartuyok, in open wonder. “Why the hell take a living human into the heart of the wastes? You’ll have to tell me a better story than that, Watcher.” The Issorartuyok grinned, revealing the roots of yellowed, sharpened teeth. “We have a long and honored tradition of story-telling among my people; it’ll pay your way. Don’t be stingy, now.”
“As you wish,” answered Tenshio. “I will pay the price of passage; far be it from me to disrespect any tradition of your mighty tribe, honored Issorartuyok.”
“Such smooth talkers all you people are,” replied Aksarpok, his bright blue and brown eyes sparkling. “I always feel so damned high and mighty after talking to one of you guys; my mate’ll have a hell of a time putting me back in my place.”
Excerpt:
The two dogs which had flanked Aksarpok peeled away from him and trotted through the snow to wait their turn to be harnessed. Pialayok and Okrarpok were swing dogs, responsible for turning the team and the sled. Lastly, Aksarpok paced to the head of the line and allowed himself to be attached to the head of the tug line.
Okrarpok, a limber, long legged swing dog with two bright, pale blue eyes, was unable to control himself; the anticipation of the run was too much. He let out a series of high, excited barks, which infected Pidguyok and threatened to turn the entire team into a chaos of over excited dogs.
Tenshio stepped back quickly, putting himself between the team and Gilly, who had been watching curiously.
Aksarpok swung around and snapped viciously in Okrarpok’s face. “Pull yourself together, man!” he snarled, his two front legs braced, his tail rigid.
“Yes, sir,” whined Okrarpok, crouching low, his tail between his legs. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just so excited, sir.”
“Rookie,” said Pialayok, looking at her harness fellow in exasperation. Though she was trembling with the anticipation of the run, she knew better than to voice it.
“I’m so excited!” howled Pidguyok in a cracking falsetto. “And I just can’t hide it!” His eyes had a laughing gleam, his large feet danced rapidly in the snow. “I’m about to lose control and I think I like it!”
The dog team let out a loud, collective groan.
“Oh, for the love of god, don’t start singing that pamma nonsense!” cried Pialayok.
“You sing one more syllable and I’ll pull your tongue right out your throat,” growled Angutiriyok.
“Geez! ...and here I thought it was funny,” the younger dog protested, laughing. “If I didn't have a real well developed sense of self, I might be a little butt hurt right about now."
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
June 21st, later
What? Two blogs in one day, again?
Yes; and thus I demonstrate my commitment to procrastination.
So, sometimes when I get stuck in my writing, or feel exhausted and drained by it, I find myself reaching for the paperback book of... unique quality. I find the phrases held within such books to be soothing. Here are two of my favorites:
"He was beautiful and his voice had the smoothness of aged brandy and the kick of white lightning."
Would I ever like to know what the hell that voice sounds like. I'm sure if I heard a man whose (very smooth) voice was enhanced by a kick of white lightning, I would keel over, his instant conquest. That, or I would run screaming for the hills.
Here's another:
"Rich stared at her, shocked by the reply he hadn't expected. Confusion had never been his strong point."
Thank goodness confusion wasn't his strong point. I mean, that would suck, right? And he was shocked, you say, shocked by something he hadn't expected? What a revelation.
Though, making fun of other people's writing does make me nervous. I start looking behind me for karma's stealthy approach. But that's ok; I can make fun of my own writing just as easily, for my ridiculous and unnecessary vocabulary, my incessant and mostly incorrect use of the semicolon, run on sentences and my consistent inability to distinguish the past tense of "to shine" with the present perfect tense of "to show."
(I totally Googled those verb tenses by the way. So if they're wrong, it's Google's fault.)
Yes; and thus I demonstrate my commitment to procrastination.
So, sometimes when I get stuck in my writing, or feel exhausted and drained by it, I find myself reaching for the paperback book of... unique quality. I find the phrases held within such books to be soothing. Here are two of my favorites:
"He was beautiful and his voice had the smoothness of aged brandy and the kick of white lightning."
Would I ever like to know what the hell that voice sounds like. I'm sure if I heard a man whose (very smooth) voice was enhanced by a kick of white lightning, I would keel over, his instant conquest. That, or I would run screaming for the hills.
Here's another:
"Rich stared at her, shocked by the reply he hadn't expected. Confusion had never been his strong point."
Thank goodness confusion wasn't his strong point. I mean, that would suck, right? And he was shocked, you say, shocked by something he hadn't expected? What a revelation.
Though, making fun of other people's writing does make me nervous. I start looking behind me for karma's stealthy approach. But that's ok; I can make fun of my own writing just as easily, for my ridiculous and unnecessary vocabulary, my incessant and mostly incorrect use of the semicolon, run on sentences and my consistent inability to distinguish the past tense of "to shine" with the present perfect tense of "to show."
(I totally Googled those verb tenses by the way. So if they're wrong, it's Google's fault.)
June 21st
Warning: shop talk ahead.
Though, I'm beginning to figure out that many of my readers are also writers themselves, so perhaps my shoptalk is not so boring as I imagine it to be.
Anyway, boy, did I ever have a hard time getting into the second part of Torri. I had to change my whole mind set, do a fair amount of research and think through a fair ways through the story.
I don't particularly enjoy this sort of "set up." I prefer to write my way straight through, if you know what I mean. After all, if I enjoyed researching, I'd be writing historical fiction or some other genre of that type. Since I write straight out of my head, no fact checking is necessary! Yay.
I wanted to make the feel of the Kagamihara completely different from the mountains and sometimes my imagination is limited to certain patterns that I gravitate toward. The more I write, the more I recognize them.
So I did a little, light research on Inuit customs and language (read: I found vocabulary lists and read wikipedia articles) and used that to flavor the new characters that I introduced.
Then, as usual, I wrestled with transition. Where do I pick up the story? Ugh. I hate the nebulousness of writing sometimes, the lack of a hard and fast rule.
Here's a pretty good rule of thumb that I have discovered: if you hate writing it, and/or think writing it will be tedious, it's highly probable that your readers will not enjoy reading it either.
At that point, I have found that it's helpful to stop thinking about how you can write it and start thinking about how you can avoid writing it while maintaining the continuity of your story.
That's what I ended up doing, myself. I didn't want to write about the whole, coming down the mountain, outfitting themselves for the trip, spending the night in lodging and heading across the border. It's full of tedious detail.
I do love detail; frequently I get a little drunk on detail and throw way too many in there. However, I like the interesting detail, the charming, the transporting, the thing that makes it present and real and individual. I don't like the tedious how-to detail; I don't like this as a writer and unless the author is marvelous, I don't like it as a reader.
So, I ended up blissfully skipping that entire part. The first part of the story ends with Yuudai, the O-minami daitoku, giving Gilly a very beautiful benediction that I lifted in its entirety from Psalm 139. It's quite astoundingly perfect for the beginning of the worst: if Gilly makes her bed in Hell, still Christ is there. If she rises on the wings of the dawn and settles on the farthest end of the sea, still His hand guides her.
Marvelous, no?
The end. Then, part two opens with the characters standing right on the southern wastes. I describe what they see, I spare a paragraph to briefly sketch out how they got there, then I describe them in detail, then the curtain goes up on new characters.
I'm not yet sure how this works; I will have to write further into the story before I have adequate perception on that. But it enabled me to start writing again and that is the key. Everything can be rewritten, but you have to start writing something in order to fix it.
I don't have anything I'm ready to share yet; I'm still tweaking the new characters. I like it though; I think I'm heading in the right direction.
Though, I'm beginning to figure out that many of my readers are also writers themselves, so perhaps my shoptalk is not so boring as I imagine it to be.
Anyway, boy, did I ever have a hard time getting into the second part of Torri. I had to change my whole mind set, do a fair amount of research and think through a fair ways through the story.
I don't particularly enjoy this sort of "set up." I prefer to write my way straight through, if you know what I mean. After all, if I enjoyed researching, I'd be writing historical fiction or some other genre of that type. Since I write straight out of my head, no fact checking is necessary! Yay.
I wanted to make the feel of the Kagamihara completely different from the mountains and sometimes my imagination is limited to certain patterns that I gravitate toward. The more I write, the more I recognize them.
So I did a little, light research on Inuit customs and language (read: I found vocabulary lists and read wikipedia articles) and used that to flavor the new characters that I introduced.
Then, as usual, I wrestled with transition. Where do I pick up the story? Ugh. I hate the nebulousness of writing sometimes, the lack of a hard and fast rule.
Here's a pretty good rule of thumb that I have discovered: if you hate writing it, and/or think writing it will be tedious, it's highly probable that your readers will not enjoy reading it either.
At that point, I have found that it's helpful to stop thinking about how you can write it and start thinking about how you can avoid writing it while maintaining the continuity of your story.
That's what I ended up doing, myself. I didn't want to write about the whole, coming down the mountain, outfitting themselves for the trip, spending the night in lodging and heading across the border. It's full of tedious detail.
I do love detail; frequently I get a little drunk on detail and throw way too many in there. However, I like the interesting detail, the charming, the transporting, the thing that makes it present and real and individual. I don't like the tedious how-to detail; I don't like this as a writer and unless the author is marvelous, I don't like it as a reader.
So, I ended up blissfully skipping that entire part. The first part of the story ends with Yuudai, the O-minami daitoku, giving Gilly a very beautiful benediction that I lifted in its entirety from Psalm 139. It's quite astoundingly perfect for the beginning of the worst: if Gilly makes her bed in Hell, still Christ is there. If she rises on the wings of the dawn and settles on the farthest end of the sea, still His hand guides her.
Marvelous, no?
The end. Then, part two opens with the characters standing right on the southern wastes. I describe what they see, I spare a paragraph to briefly sketch out how they got there, then I describe them in detail, then the curtain goes up on new characters.
I'm not yet sure how this works; I will have to write further into the story before I have adequate perception on that. But it enabled me to start writing again and that is the key. Everything can be rewritten, but you have to start writing something in order to fix it.
I don't have anything I'm ready to share yet; I'm still tweaking the new characters. I like it though; I think I'm heading in the right direction.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
June 19th
As usual, I am off topic for the date. Happy Father's Day!
I had such an intense anxiety attack about going to church today that I almost didn't go. In fact, I wouldn't have, if Keith hadn't said that we should give it one more try. I asked him twice if we could just stay home.
I was standing in the closet, trying to decide what to wear, when I literally heard myself whispering "I hate me."
I said it out loud. Talk about creepy. So then, I forced myself to say out loud that I didn't hate myself, I just hated how I was feeling. Which is true: sometimes it's important to reinforce the fact that our emotions are not the same as our identities.
I wrote a blog about my experience at church last Sunday, but I didn't post it here because it was too... unedited. It was too real. Still, I felt as if I should share it in some way, so I sent it to my dad for him to post on his facebook page.
Today, as soon as we got in the church building, we were greeted by the pastor's wife, who caused me to feel as though I was a younger sister of hers or something. It's as though I am long lost family.
When she asked me how I was doing, I told her that I was extremely anxious, that going to church to in general made me feel nervous and that the meet and greet part of the service was particularly terrifying. I didn't plan on telling her this, it just came rushing out, breathlessly.
She was, naturally, marvelous about the whole thing and must have told her husband because he made it a point, before opening prayer, to say graciously and warmly, that church is a refuge from the cares and worries and anxieties of the rest of the world.
I thought that was kind of him to say, but I wanted to tell him that going to church on Sundays was absolutely and without question the hardest thing I have to do every week. I don't see that changing anytime soon, to be honest.
Fortunately, it was our own pastor who gave the sermon this Sunday. His sermons make sense to me. He delivers them with such a great combination of humility and authority. They are presented in a logical and orderly way. Even if I don't agree with him, I can still grasp the point he is making.
When he prayed for people in the church, he also prayed for himself and his family and said that he didn't know what to do, or what the best decision would be. I found that to be a very impressive thing to hear from a pastor.
His text was the prodigal son, from Luke. In talking about it, he touched on the fact that God disciplines His children. As usual, when hearing that, I cringed, wondering when I would feel the disciplining hand of God.
Then I realized that I'm thirty three years old and still waiting for God to come along and hit me over the head with a big stick and it hasn't happened. If it was going to happen, wouldn't it have happened already?
Like, there were many times when I was living in some red letter sin. That would have been a good time for God to have hit me over the head with something, I'm thinking. However, I don't remember that happening.
So, I'm sitting there, fearful and thinking: at any time, I will feel the rod of God's discipline on my back.
Then, I am conscious of Christ being close to me. I feel His loving presence. It is as though He has put His arms around me and He whispers something in my ear, something I recognize as a verse: He says, I am the one that makes intercession to the Father for you. You don't have to make your case to Him, I do that for you.
So, I had to look it up when I got home. It is Romans 8:34:
"Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us."
I don't know how it all works out; I don't know what is the balance or relationship between God's discipline and His loving kindness and mercy.
But I tell you what, I do know one thing. Jesus has a deep seated love for me and one that He demonstrates frequently, with loving attention to detail. Like, He is not just a figure of speach, or some vague force out there in the cosmos. He is a Divine Person, with personality and emotions and thoughts and scars.
He is not just viewing the world from a distance, as the song says. He is up close and personal.
I had such an intense anxiety attack about going to church today that I almost didn't go. In fact, I wouldn't have, if Keith hadn't said that we should give it one more try. I asked him twice if we could just stay home.
I was standing in the closet, trying to decide what to wear, when I literally heard myself whispering "I hate me."
I said it out loud. Talk about creepy. So then, I forced myself to say out loud that I didn't hate myself, I just hated how I was feeling. Which is true: sometimes it's important to reinforce the fact that our emotions are not the same as our identities.
I wrote a blog about my experience at church last Sunday, but I didn't post it here because it was too... unedited. It was too real. Still, I felt as if I should share it in some way, so I sent it to my dad for him to post on his facebook page.
Today, as soon as we got in the church building, we were greeted by the pastor's wife, who caused me to feel as though I was a younger sister of hers or something. It's as though I am long lost family.
When she asked me how I was doing, I told her that I was extremely anxious, that going to church to in general made me feel nervous and that the meet and greet part of the service was particularly terrifying. I didn't plan on telling her this, it just came rushing out, breathlessly.
She was, naturally, marvelous about the whole thing and must have told her husband because he made it a point, before opening prayer, to say graciously and warmly, that church is a refuge from the cares and worries and anxieties of the rest of the world.
I thought that was kind of him to say, but I wanted to tell him that going to church on Sundays was absolutely and without question the hardest thing I have to do every week. I don't see that changing anytime soon, to be honest.
Fortunately, it was our own pastor who gave the sermon this Sunday. His sermons make sense to me. He delivers them with such a great combination of humility and authority. They are presented in a logical and orderly way. Even if I don't agree with him, I can still grasp the point he is making.
When he prayed for people in the church, he also prayed for himself and his family and said that he didn't know what to do, or what the best decision would be. I found that to be a very impressive thing to hear from a pastor.
His text was the prodigal son, from Luke. In talking about it, he touched on the fact that God disciplines His children. As usual, when hearing that, I cringed, wondering when I would feel the disciplining hand of God.
Then I realized that I'm thirty three years old and still waiting for God to come along and hit me over the head with a big stick and it hasn't happened. If it was going to happen, wouldn't it have happened already?
Like, there were many times when I was living in some red letter sin. That would have been a good time for God to have hit me over the head with something, I'm thinking. However, I don't remember that happening.
So, I'm sitting there, fearful and thinking: at any time, I will feel the rod of God's discipline on my back.
Then, I am conscious of Christ being close to me. I feel His loving presence. It is as though He has put His arms around me and He whispers something in my ear, something I recognize as a verse: He says, I am the one that makes intercession to the Father for you. You don't have to make your case to Him, I do that for you.
So, I had to look it up when I got home. It is Romans 8:34:
"Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us."
I don't know how it all works out; I don't know what is the balance or relationship between God's discipline and His loving kindness and mercy.
But I tell you what, I do know one thing. Jesus has a deep seated love for me and one that He demonstrates frequently, with loving attention to detail. Like, He is not just a figure of speach, or some vague force out there in the cosmos. He is a Divine Person, with personality and emotions and thoughts and scars.
He is not just viewing the world from a distance, as the song says. He is up close and personal.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
June 16th
Excerpt:
Fushi’s laughter had ceased to shake the ground. He watched Gilly's approach with delight.
“Ah, she comes!” he said.
She stopped when she reached his outstretched front legs. “Come, come,” encouraged Fushi. “I won’t eat you; you’re far too amusing.”
She crept a little closer. Fushi’s eyes glowed a pale green, like thin jade lit from behind. He lowered his imposing head until his chin touched the grass, almost as a dog eager to play. Above his head now rose the hulking mass of his muscular shoulders. His tail flopped on the ground once and then twice. He winked one glowing eye.
This coaxed a small though genuine smile from Gilly. She stopped a few feet from the beast’s immense square muzzle with the flaring nostrils. She could feel his warm breath on her knees. He smelled of star anise and cinnamon.
“And how old are you, Gilly?” asked Fushi quietly. His voice vibrated in the soles of her feet, for once properly encased in sandals.
“Six,” answered Gilly.
“Ah,” rumbled Fushi. “A lucky number, one that means happiness.”
“It does?”
“Lord Fushi, I’m six!” interjected Aiko, standing on the sidelines.
“Indeed: two happy girls,” amended Fushi.
Aiko came hurrying up to Gilly and put her arm around the other girl’s waist. Gilly jumped slightly and then held herself still. Aiko leaned her head against Gilly’s.
“Can you fix her?” she asked Fushi.
“No, I cannot,” admitted Fushi. “But the Sacred Realm will know how.”
“Come inside, children,” called Atsuko, gracefully getting to her feet. “It’s time to wash up for dinner.”
Gilly twisted around to look at Tenshio, wondering if she was considered one of the children. He was standing some paces behind her, his face calm. His arms were crossed, one hand still holding her clothing and her doll.
“Thank Lord Fushi and then go with Lady Atsuka,” he said gently.
“Thank you, Lord Fushi,” said Gilly. “I do like you and I am glad you are coming and I apologize for embarrassing Master Tenshio.”
Before he could answer, she leaped nimbly over the beast’s front paw and ran after Aiko, who waited by the front door, holding her father’s hand. Yuudai closed the door behind them. Tenshio walked slowly over to Fushi and bowed deeply to the beast in the now otherwise empty garden.
The light from a nearby stone lantern shone on Tenshio’s left side, casting his right into shadow. The light brought out the sheen in the heavy white silk of Tenshio’s kimono sleeve and burnished the scarlet of his stiffly pleated, wide legged hakama. He curled the fingers of his right hand under the waist band.
Funshi drew his front half back up off the grass and stretched, a long, luxurious movement that tore the grass into strips where his front paws gouged it. He shook his head, rolled his shoulders and slapped the ground hard with his tail.
When he yawned, the light shone liquid on his white teeth. The light gleamed on the thick pelt of his colossal right shoulder and solid front leg. His eyes were a pale shimmer in the shadows around them.
“This atmosphere down here always makes me so damn sleepy,” Fushi rumbled lazily.
“I very much appreciate your coming,” Tenshio said. “The girl is right; I do need help.”
“T’ien-lung sent Satoru my way; he had a feeling you might be in over your head,” Fushi said gently. “Has the child told you what happened to her, to leave her spirit in that ravaged state?”
“No. I don’t dare ask. I grow increasing convinced that whatever it was, she has pushed it entirely out of her mind. Otherwise, how could she keep from speaking of it, each time she opened her mouth?”
“Whatever it was, it will come for her on the Kagamihara.”
“I know,” said Tenshio, his shoulders dropping. “I have seriously considered not taking her back at all.”
“What prevents you from making that decision?” Fushi asked curiously.
“She doesn’t belong here,” Tenshio said simply. “She belongs with her parents and, no matter how insupportable it may be, her fate lies in the mortal realm. We cannot permanently remove all of suffering humankind. It’s not our purpose.”
“And yet you are teaching her to behave as a well mannered daemon child should behave,” Fushi pointed out.
“I did that at first to save my own pride,” Tenshio explained. “I didn’t realize at the time that in the course of caring for a child, there is simply no saving of one’s pride. I have never been so consistently humbled in all my life.”
Fushi grinned. “Humility becomes you, honorable priest.”
“I have overheard her earnestly asking God to save me from Hell,” Tenshio admitted, his eyes dancing. "She seemed to think it impossible for me to have been redeemed from the fall."
Fushi laughed, his rib cage shaking, his tail lashing the ground.
"I wouldn't laugh so hard if I were you," cautioned Tenshio, grinning. "I have no doubt that she would include you in that most unfortunate fate."
Fushi’s laughter had ceased to shake the ground. He watched Gilly's approach with delight.
“Ah, she comes!” he said.
She stopped when she reached his outstretched front legs. “Come, come,” encouraged Fushi. “I won’t eat you; you’re far too amusing.”
She crept a little closer. Fushi’s eyes glowed a pale green, like thin jade lit from behind. He lowered his imposing head until his chin touched the grass, almost as a dog eager to play. Above his head now rose the hulking mass of his muscular shoulders. His tail flopped on the ground once and then twice. He winked one glowing eye.
This coaxed a small though genuine smile from Gilly. She stopped a few feet from the beast’s immense square muzzle with the flaring nostrils. She could feel his warm breath on her knees. He smelled of star anise and cinnamon.
“And how old are you, Gilly?” asked Fushi quietly. His voice vibrated in the soles of her feet, for once properly encased in sandals.
“Six,” answered Gilly.
“Ah,” rumbled Fushi. “A lucky number, one that means happiness.”
“It does?”
“Lord Fushi, I’m six!” interjected Aiko, standing on the sidelines.
“Indeed: two happy girls,” amended Fushi.
Aiko came hurrying up to Gilly and put her arm around the other girl’s waist. Gilly jumped slightly and then held herself still. Aiko leaned her head against Gilly’s.
“Can you fix her?” she asked Fushi.
“No, I cannot,” admitted Fushi. “But the Sacred Realm will know how.”
“Come inside, children,” called Atsuko, gracefully getting to her feet. “It’s time to wash up for dinner.”
Gilly twisted around to look at Tenshio, wondering if she was considered one of the children. He was standing some paces behind her, his face calm. His arms were crossed, one hand still holding her clothing and her doll.
“Thank Lord Fushi and then go with Lady Atsuka,” he said gently.
“Thank you, Lord Fushi,” said Gilly. “I do like you and I am glad you are coming and I apologize for embarrassing Master Tenshio.”
Before he could answer, she leaped nimbly over the beast’s front paw and ran after Aiko, who waited by the front door, holding her father’s hand. Yuudai closed the door behind them. Tenshio walked slowly over to Fushi and bowed deeply to the beast in the now otherwise empty garden.
The light from a nearby stone lantern shone on Tenshio’s left side, casting his right into shadow. The light brought out the sheen in the heavy white silk of Tenshio’s kimono sleeve and burnished the scarlet of his stiffly pleated, wide legged hakama. He curled the fingers of his right hand under the waist band.
Funshi drew his front half back up off the grass and stretched, a long, luxurious movement that tore the grass into strips where his front paws gouged it. He shook his head, rolled his shoulders and slapped the ground hard with his tail.
When he yawned, the light shone liquid on his white teeth. The light gleamed on the thick pelt of his colossal right shoulder and solid front leg. His eyes were a pale shimmer in the shadows around them.
“This atmosphere down here always makes me so damn sleepy,” Fushi rumbled lazily.
“I very much appreciate your coming,” Tenshio said. “The girl is right; I do need help.”
“T’ien-lung sent Satoru my way; he had a feeling you might be in over your head,” Fushi said gently. “Has the child told you what happened to her, to leave her spirit in that ravaged state?”
“No. I don’t dare ask. I grow increasing convinced that whatever it was, she has pushed it entirely out of her mind. Otherwise, how could she keep from speaking of it, each time she opened her mouth?”
“Whatever it was, it will come for her on the Kagamihara.”
“I know,” said Tenshio, his shoulders dropping. “I have seriously considered not taking her back at all.”
“What prevents you from making that decision?” Fushi asked curiously.
“She doesn’t belong here,” Tenshio said simply. “She belongs with her parents and, no matter how insupportable it may be, her fate lies in the mortal realm. We cannot permanently remove all of suffering humankind. It’s not our purpose.”
“And yet you are teaching her to behave as a well mannered daemon child should behave,” Fushi pointed out.
“I did that at first to save my own pride,” Tenshio explained. “I didn’t realize at the time that in the course of caring for a child, there is simply no saving of one’s pride. I have never been so consistently humbled in all my life.”
Fushi grinned. “Humility becomes you, honorable priest.”
“I have overheard her earnestly asking God to save me from Hell,” Tenshio admitted, his eyes dancing. "She seemed to think it impossible for me to have been redeemed from the fall."
Fushi laughed, his rib cage shaking, his tail lashing the ground.
"I wouldn't laugh so hard if I were you," cautioned Tenshio, grinning. "I have no doubt that she would include you in that most unfortunate fate."
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
June 15th
I love getting up in the morning and seeing my computer sitting quietly vacant. I get a little thrill of excitement, thinking of the scenes I had finished the day before, and the scenes that I will draw out that day. Though, when I think the latter, I must continually push aside the lingering thought that I cannot do it.
I can. I do it each day, scene by scene.
No more purposeful dilly dallying for my little crew. Gilly has humanized Tenshio and Tenshio is now the firm security that Gilly must be able to stand on. The final member of the party has appeared: they must now descend.
Gilly's nightmares are becoming worse and worse. Already, the unsettling virtues of the spirit realm are loosening the barriers that have kept her mind from the truth. She vacillates between acting like a much younger child and acting older than her years, as the unwanted ballast inside her swings from side to side.
Her nightmares are mine exactly as I have dreamed them. I have found that it is a very difficult task to make up dreams and still have the pretend dreams carry the truly bizarre and urgent and fragmented quality of real dreams.
So, here is the plan for them. They go down into the Kagamihara and onto the ice wastes of the south pole. They travel to the edge of the ice by dog sled. They will be talking dogs, of course; big, magnificent and playful huskies with rippling grey white ruffs of fur. There will be some kind of wooden, rickety port city at the edge of the ice.
At that point, I cannot decide if they go by ship through the Indian ocean or if they fly over it. Tenshio can fly, though this is not known to Gilly or even the reader at this point. He is capable of calling down and riding the west wind, as he has been sealed to the Sacred Realm in the service of that wind.
But this is absolutely no casual way of getting around and it would be very difficult to control the wind in the chaotic and swirling atmosphere over the mirrored plains. Not to mention, exhausting trying to bring along a passenger or two. So it's not practical.
If they go by ship, it will be by a wooden sailing vessel, a large one, with two or three masts. I'm pretty sure. Or something pulled by massive underwater beasts. Narwhals, maybe, or a humpback whale.
If they fly, it might be by something like a blimp, some crazy antiquated Victorian piece of technology. Or they will be carried by something. T'ien-lung, the celestial dragon, could carry all of them easily and that would reintroduce him into the story.
However they go, they will not head into any great difficulty until they land on the Asian continent and make their way up through India, toward the Himalayas. I have no idea about those scenes; all I know is, flashbacks will occur and the materialization of her abuse will be tracking her down at that point, having sensed her presence as soon as she stepped onto the plains.
I'll tell you a secret: I hide messages in the names of my characters. Tenshi, in Japanese, means all of the following: heavenly gift, imperial gift, nature, natural elements, angel, and the emperor. Ten is the kanji for heaven (among other meanings). Kanji is one of the three Japanese alphabets, the one that they borrowed from the Chinese. The character itself looks like a torii gate.
When Tenshio refers to the archangel that guards the sacred gate, he calls him Eiheisama, which literally means master (or lord) palace guard.
Touzainanboku means all four directions of the compass, and is the name of the encircling mountains. Kagami is a mirror and hara is a plain. Daitoku means honorable priest. Nishi is west.
Sometimes, in the politest version of the Japanese language, the prefix "O" is added, usually to the verb. I have taken that concept and used it in my own way, adding it to nishi to indicate that this not just the west (wind), but the Honorable West (wind).
So Tenshio's full job description and/or title would be Onishikaze Daitoku. (I add the hyphen in my story because I think it's cool looking.) If a person who was actually fluent in Japanese read my manuscript, they would think it hilarious, I'm sure.
I did much the same thing in my first story. Ceallach means "war, strife and bright headed" which indicates his job description, his fate and his hair. It can also be argued to mean recluse or hermit, which is his tendency. His older brother who summons him back to Tir na nOg for battle is named Fionghuine, which means "kin slayer."
And so on and so forth. None of these things do I ever explain in the stories themselves. The meanings are something only I know, something that links me to my characters.
The notable exception are my main characters, my girls. Their names are never chosen by meaning. They are chosen from the gut, not for any reason I can explain. They come with their names already attached, you might say, and it is one of the first things I ever know about them.
I can. I do it each day, scene by scene.
No more purposeful dilly dallying for my little crew. Gilly has humanized Tenshio and Tenshio is now the firm security that Gilly must be able to stand on. The final member of the party has appeared: they must now descend.
Gilly's nightmares are becoming worse and worse. Already, the unsettling virtues of the spirit realm are loosening the barriers that have kept her mind from the truth. She vacillates between acting like a much younger child and acting older than her years, as the unwanted ballast inside her swings from side to side.
Her nightmares are mine exactly as I have dreamed them. I have found that it is a very difficult task to make up dreams and still have the pretend dreams carry the truly bizarre and urgent and fragmented quality of real dreams.
So, here is the plan for them. They go down into the Kagamihara and onto the ice wastes of the south pole. They travel to the edge of the ice by dog sled. They will be talking dogs, of course; big, magnificent and playful huskies with rippling grey white ruffs of fur. There will be some kind of wooden, rickety port city at the edge of the ice.
At that point, I cannot decide if they go by ship through the Indian ocean or if they fly over it. Tenshio can fly, though this is not known to Gilly or even the reader at this point. He is capable of calling down and riding the west wind, as he has been sealed to the Sacred Realm in the service of that wind.
But this is absolutely no casual way of getting around and it would be very difficult to control the wind in the chaotic and swirling atmosphere over the mirrored plains. Not to mention, exhausting trying to bring along a passenger or two. So it's not practical.
If they go by ship, it will be by a wooden sailing vessel, a large one, with two or three masts. I'm pretty sure. Or something pulled by massive underwater beasts. Narwhals, maybe, or a humpback whale.
If they fly, it might be by something like a blimp, some crazy antiquated Victorian piece of technology. Or they will be carried by something. T'ien-lung, the celestial dragon, could carry all of them easily and that would reintroduce him into the story.
However they go, they will not head into any great difficulty until they land on the Asian continent and make their way up through India, toward the Himalayas. I have no idea about those scenes; all I know is, flashbacks will occur and the materialization of her abuse will be tracking her down at that point, having sensed her presence as soon as she stepped onto the plains.
I'll tell you a secret: I hide messages in the names of my characters. Tenshi, in Japanese, means all of the following: heavenly gift, imperial gift, nature, natural elements, angel, and the emperor. Ten is the kanji for heaven (among other meanings). Kanji is one of the three Japanese alphabets, the one that they borrowed from the Chinese. The character itself looks like a torii gate.
When Tenshio refers to the archangel that guards the sacred gate, he calls him Eiheisama, which literally means master (or lord) palace guard.
Touzainanboku means all four directions of the compass, and is the name of the encircling mountains. Kagami is a mirror and hara is a plain. Daitoku means honorable priest. Nishi is west.
Sometimes, in the politest version of the Japanese language, the prefix "O" is added, usually to the verb. I have taken that concept and used it in my own way, adding it to nishi to indicate that this not just the west (wind), but the Honorable West (wind).
So Tenshio's full job description and/or title would be Onishikaze Daitoku. (I add the hyphen in my story because I think it's cool looking.) If a person who was actually fluent in Japanese read my manuscript, they would think it hilarious, I'm sure.
I did much the same thing in my first story. Ceallach means "war, strife and bright headed" which indicates his job description, his fate and his hair. It can also be argued to mean recluse or hermit, which is his tendency. His older brother who summons him back to Tir na nOg for battle is named Fionghuine, which means "kin slayer."
And so on and so forth. None of these things do I ever explain in the stories themselves. The meanings are something only I know, something that links me to my characters.
The notable exception are my main characters, my girls. Their names are never chosen by meaning. They are chosen from the gut, not for any reason I can explain. They come with their names already attached, you might say, and it is one of the first things I ever know about them.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
June 14th
Excerpt:
When they reached the house of the O-minami shrine, Tenshio sensed the presence of an old friend. He lifted his head with relief. His steps quickened; he went lithely up the stone steps to the garden.
Sitting in the grass was a massive pale beast. Its shoulders and chest were heavy and muscular and covered with a tightly curling white mane. Two sturdy front paws ended in thick, upward arching claws.
The hindquarters of the beast were flopped down into the grass. Its thick, short hind legs ended in claws at the feet and were barbed at the prominent hocks. Its long tail moved lazily up and down in the grass, rippling the silken bob of hair at its tip.
The wide, heavy jaws were open as it panted, revealing rows of sharpened white teeth. Two long incisors curled over its pale lips. Above the mouth its tip tilted, pale eyes watched from under bushy eyebrows. Despite its size, all of the beast’s lines were as elegant and simple as calligraphy.
Yuudai sat nearby on the veranda, cross-legged on a cushion. He was leaning forward, one hand on his knee, the other waving a fan lazily through the air in front of his face. Beside him sat Lady Atsuko, her legs curled demurely under her. In her lap she held a wide mouthed glass jar. Their infant was bound up against her mother’s back in a swath of indigo and blue cotton, which tied over Atsuko’s chest.
In the grass beside the beast, Takeshi and Aiko were running and leaping after chi that hovered in the dusky air. Their happy shouts echoed strangely off the rock walls that encircled the elegant, white house. The stone lanterns that were scattered through out the garden’s landscaping were all lit, casting pools of soft light here and there.
When the beast saw Tenshio walking onto the grass, carrying a soundly sleeping Gilly, its wide jaws curved up further.
“Tenshio!” it said. Its voice was so deep that it seemed the air trembled. Its tail flicked sharply down onto the grass as it spoke.
The children turned, breathless, from their pursuit of the lights and bowed to Tenshio. Their faces still glowed with excitement.
“Look who’s come, Master Tenshio!” exclaimed Takeshi, unable to keep silent. “Lord Fushi!”
“Lord Fushi!” echoed Aiko, clapping her hands.
“So he has,” agreed Tenshio, smiling broadly. “And I am grateful for it.”
Gilly stirred from the deep sleep that Tenshio’s warmth so often induced in her. The sound of Lord Fushi’s voice has reverberated even in her dreams. She lifted her heavy head from Tenshio’s shoulder and rubbed her eyes. The cheek that had rested against his shoulder was creased from the folded silk she had lain against.
“So this is Gilly,” said the beast, tipping his head. “We must be friends, for I am coming with you on your journey.”
Gilly took in the beast with the glowing eyes slowly, her dream still fading away. Tenshio set her down on her feet, but did not stand, since she continued to cling to the fingers of his left hand.
“Will you come to me, child, as you did not to Lord T‘ien-lung?” said the beast. “It would be a great pleasure to put him in his place for once: he’s far too cocky for his own good. Besides, you and I must be friends, for we are going on a long journey together.”
Lord Fushi crouched down, sliding his front paws out until his belly was settled against the deep grass. His heavy head with the coiled mane and curved fangs were now about at Gilly’s height.
“We are?” asked Gilly, still sheltered by Tenshio’s arm, pressed close up against his knee. Tenshio’s other hand casually held Gilly's original set of clothing, still damp from their washing at Osamu’s house. He waited, curious as to what the child would do without any encouragement from him.
“Indeed. We will cross the Kagamihara together.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said the child artlessly. “Master Tenshio needs help.”
Tenshio dropped his head into the hand that held the clothing and quietly groaned. Everyone else, after a stunned moment, roared with laughter. The ground shook from it. Takeshi was bent double. Atsuko leaned against her husband, her hands limp in her lap as she laughed. The long, white line of her throat was very beautiful in the dim light.
“When I mentioned that you were good for the ego, child,” Tenshio murmured to Gilly, “my intention was not for you to redouble your efforts in deflating it.”
When they reached the house of the O-minami shrine, Tenshio sensed the presence of an old friend. He lifted his head with relief. His steps quickened; he went lithely up the stone steps to the garden.
Sitting in the grass was a massive pale beast. Its shoulders and chest were heavy and muscular and covered with a tightly curling white mane. Two sturdy front paws ended in thick, upward arching claws.
The hindquarters of the beast were flopped down into the grass. Its thick, short hind legs ended in claws at the feet and were barbed at the prominent hocks. Its long tail moved lazily up and down in the grass, rippling the silken bob of hair at its tip.
The wide, heavy jaws were open as it panted, revealing rows of sharpened white teeth. Two long incisors curled over its pale lips. Above the mouth its tip tilted, pale eyes watched from under bushy eyebrows. Despite its size, all of the beast’s lines were as elegant and simple as calligraphy.
Yuudai sat nearby on the veranda, cross-legged on a cushion. He was leaning forward, one hand on his knee, the other waving a fan lazily through the air in front of his face. Beside him sat Lady Atsuko, her legs curled demurely under her. In her lap she held a wide mouthed glass jar. Their infant was bound up against her mother’s back in a swath of indigo and blue cotton, which tied over Atsuko’s chest.
In the grass beside the beast, Takeshi and Aiko were running and leaping after chi that hovered in the dusky air. Their happy shouts echoed strangely off the rock walls that encircled the elegant, white house. The stone lanterns that were scattered through out the garden’s landscaping were all lit, casting pools of soft light here and there.
When the beast saw Tenshio walking onto the grass, carrying a soundly sleeping Gilly, its wide jaws curved up further.
“Tenshio!” it said. Its voice was so deep that it seemed the air trembled. Its tail flicked sharply down onto the grass as it spoke.
The children turned, breathless, from their pursuit of the lights and bowed to Tenshio. Their faces still glowed with excitement.
“Look who’s come, Master Tenshio!” exclaimed Takeshi, unable to keep silent. “Lord Fushi!”
“Lord Fushi!” echoed Aiko, clapping her hands.
“So he has,” agreed Tenshio, smiling broadly. “And I am grateful for it.”
Gilly stirred from the deep sleep that Tenshio’s warmth so often induced in her. The sound of Lord Fushi’s voice has reverberated even in her dreams. She lifted her heavy head from Tenshio’s shoulder and rubbed her eyes. The cheek that had rested against his shoulder was creased from the folded silk she had lain against.
“So this is Gilly,” said the beast, tipping his head. “We must be friends, for I am coming with you on your journey.”
Gilly took in the beast with the glowing eyes slowly, her dream still fading away. Tenshio set her down on her feet, but did not stand, since she continued to cling to the fingers of his left hand.
“Will you come to me, child, as you did not to Lord T‘ien-lung?” said the beast. “It would be a great pleasure to put him in his place for once: he’s far too cocky for his own good. Besides, you and I must be friends, for we are going on a long journey together.”
Lord Fushi crouched down, sliding his front paws out until his belly was settled against the deep grass. His heavy head with the coiled mane and curved fangs were now about at Gilly’s height.
“We are?” asked Gilly, still sheltered by Tenshio’s arm, pressed close up against his knee. Tenshio’s other hand casually held Gilly's original set of clothing, still damp from their washing at Osamu’s house. He waited, curious as to what the child would do without any encouragement from him.
“Indeed. We will cross the Kagamihara together.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said the child artlessly. “Master Tenshio needs help.”
Tenshio dropped his head into the hand that held the clothing and quietly groaned. Everyone else, after a stunned moment, roared with laughter. The ground shook from it. Takeshi was bent double. Atsuko leaned against her husband, her hands limp in her lap as she laughed. The long, white line of her throat was very beautiful in the dim light.
“When I mentioned that you were good for the ego, child,” Tenshio murmured to Gilly, “my intention was not for you to redouble your efforts in deflating it.”
Monday, June 13, 2011
June 13th
Excerpt:
Gilly thumped down the stairs, through the hallway, and out to the back garden. She stripped off her mostly clean socks and stuffed them in a pocket, planning on putting them on again later, thereby cleverly hiding her dirty feet.
Half of the garden was a wide, shallow and slow moving stream that pooled there on its way down the mountain. Thick grass and clipped bushes grew right up to the edge. Beside the water stood a thick, squat stone lantern and beside that grew a thin tree with silver bark and pale pink blossoms. Gilly made camp at this appealing spot.
The girl was not sure about her new doll; she had never been a big fan of dolls in general and certainly not of the color pink, but she figured the toy would do in a pinch. Plum Blossom proved to be an adequate companion, but several hours and not a few aqueous adventures later, Gilly was startled by the sudden presence of a Sennyo at her side.
Resigned now to the inevitable, Gilly surrendered her damp and muddy person without fuss. She was led into the house and made presentable again. Afterward, she followed the surprised Sennyo into the sunken kitchen area at the back of the house. When the retainers saw that Gilly intended to stay in the interesting area, they provided her with cotton slippers to wear and an apron and set her to work.
Tenshio came to himself a few hours later with a sudden start of concern. Where was Gilly? Why hadn’t she come looking for him? What could she have gotten into?
He found her in the kitchen area, wearing a brightly patterned red and orange apron over a make shift and much too large outfit that appeared to consist of some elderly woman’s jacket and the shorts from a boy’s school uniform.
On the wooden surface of the table in front of Gilly was a bamboo steamer full of hot rice, a tray of dried seaweed strips and a rough jar filled with pickled plums. There was a growing pile of distinctly lumpy balls of rice on a platter to one side of Gilly.
The child was kneeling on a cushion on the raised work area of the kitchen; her arms and clothing were covered with bits of steamed rice. Her doll sat on the cushion beside her, propped up by the table leg. The doll was looking much the worse for wear, but was still managing to stare pleasantly and calmly up at the beamed ceiling.
A Sennyo knelt on a cushion across the table from Gilly. The creature bowed elegantly from the waist when she saw the O-nishi Daitoku appear in the open doorway.
“Tenshio!” Gilly exclaimed with joy, turning to see who the Sennyo was bowing to. Then her face fell. “I mean, Mr. Tenshio. Master Tenshio. Look what I made!”
She eagerly extended to him her latest creation. It was a not quite spherical ball of rice with a strip of seaweed pasted to it with the steam from the hot rice.
“It’s to eat,” Gilly said shyly. “Do you want lunch?”
“Thank you very much, Gilly,” said Tenshio, gravely accepting the offering. It was very small in his large hand. He knelt down on a spare cushion and popped the whole thing in his mouth. Gilly watched nervously.
“Umeboshi,” said Tenshio approvingly, after swallowing the morsel.
“It’s salty,” admitted Gilly. “Hers are better. She can make square ones. Look!”
“That comes with practice,” said Tenshio.
“I got in the water,” confessed Gilly.
“When? Where?”
“In the garden. There’s a stream…” Gilly’s eyes lit up with the remembered pleasure of it.
“So that’s why you’re wearing those clothes.”
“Yes,” admitted Gilly, settling down on her cushion.
“No more of that. You can’t keep going through other people’s clothing.”
“Yes sir. Master Tenshio.”
Tenshio sighed.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Gilly, drawing the doll onto her lap.
“I think so.”
“Is it not good?” she asked, tilting her head and looking up into his troubled face.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
Gilly thumped down the stairs, through the hallway, and out to the back garden. She stripped off her mostly clean socks and stuffed them in a pocket, planning on putting them on again later, thereby cleverly hiding her dirty feet.
Half of the garden was a wide, shallow and slow moving stream that pooled there on its way down the mountain. Thick grass and clipped bushes grew right up to the edge. Beside the water stood a thick, squat stone lantern and beside that grew a thin tree with silver bark and pale pink blossoms. Gilly made camp at this appealing spot.
The girl was not sure about her new doll; she had never been a big fan of dolls in general and certainly not of the color pink, but she figured the toy would do in a pinch. Plum Blossom proved to be an adequate companion, but several hours and not a few aqueous adventures later, Gilly was startled by the sudden presence of a Sennyo at her side.
Resigned now to the inevitable, Gilly surrendered her damp and muddy person without fuss. She was led into the house and made presentable again. Afterward, she followed the surprised Sennyo into the sunken kitchen area at the back of the house. When the retainers saw that Gilly intended to stay in the interesting area, they provided her with cotton slippers to wear and an apron and set her to work.
Tenshio came to himself a few hours later with a sudden start of concern. Where was Gilly? Why hadn’t she come looking for him? What could she have gotten into?
He found her in the kitchen area, wearing a brightly patterned red and orange apron over a make shift and much too large outfit that appeared to consist of some elderly woman’s jacket and the shorts from a boy’s school uniform.
On the wooden surface of the table in front of Gilly was a bamboo steamer full of hot rice, a tray of dried seaweed strips and a rough jar filled with pickled plums. There was a growing pile of distinctly lumpy balls of rice on a platter to one side of Gilly.
The child was kneeling on a cushion on the raised work area of the kitchen; her arms and clothing were covered with bits of steamed rice. Her doll sat on the cushion beside her, propped up by the table leg. The doll was looking much the worse for wear, but was still managing to stare pleasantly and calmly up at the beamed ceiling.
A Sennyo knelt on a cushion across the table from Gilly. The creature bowed elegantly from the waist when she saw the O-nishi Daitoku appear in the open doorway.
“Tenshio!” Gilly exclaimed with joy, turning to see who the Sennyo was bowing to. Then her face fell. “I mean, Mr. Tenshio. Master Tenshio. Look what I made!”
She eagerly extended to him her latest creation. It was a not quite spherical ball of rice with a strip of seaweed pasted to it with the steam from the hot rice.
“It’s to eat,” Gilly said shyly. “Do you want lunch?”
“Thank you very much, Gilly,” said Tenshio, gravely accepting the offering. It was very small in his large hand. He knelt down on a spare cushion and popped the whole thing in his mouth. Gilly watched nervously.
“Umeboshi,” said Tenshio approvingly, after swallowing the morsel.
“It’s salty,” admitted Gilly. “Hers are better. She can make square ones. Look!”
“That comes with practice,” said Tenshio.
“I got in the water,” confessed Gilly.
“When? Where?”
“In the garden. There’s a stream…” Gilly’s eyes lit up with the remembered pleasure of it.
“So that’s why you’re wearing those clothes.”
“Yes,” admitted Gilly, settling down on her cushion.
“No more of that. You can’t keep going through other people’s clothing.”
“Yes sir. Master Tenshio.”
Tenshio sighed.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Gilly, drawing the doll onto her lap.
“I think so.”
“Is it not good?” she asked, tilting her head and looking up into his troubled face.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
Sunday, June 12, 2011
June 12th
Yesterday we had a little girl's birthday party at the house. It was kind of sad; nobody else showed up. It was just our two families. I don't know that the little girl noticed. She turned four.
I am co-writing Torii- it's myself and my inner child. I haven't felt this in touch with my inner child since going through therapy. My inner child has very definite ideas on how her character behaves. She does not mind when I must portray her weaknesses as well as her resiliency and earnest desire to please.
I can put myself into the story that intimately by telling myself that I won't publish it. It's a bare faced lie; I see right through it. I know that I will try to publish it. But I tell myself I won't, when I have pretend in order to write what I know I have to write.
Which makes me think of perhaps my favorite quote of all:
"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." ~Sylvia Plath
I admit, I love it partly because she uses awkward English- writable about? But also because she said much better what I tried to say earlier.
I've written over fifty pages of Torii and all of them are just setting up before the story goes out, over the lip and plunges into the darkness ahead. But it must have that much set up; the wrenching hardships ahead require that the characters form a strong bond of trust and familiarity, or else when it comes time to face the truth Gilly will drown, unable to face what she must.
My ideas on the plot line ahead continue their natural, slow evolution. Gilly cannot completely conclude her business the first trip in Kagamihara. She simply can't; she won't be able to take back her own power until she's an adult. Children are powerless by nature and are handicapped by their dichotomous minds.
I think the first trip down, she will face the truth, and Tenshio will destroy it for her. Which is not a permenent solution- it will regenerate. Evil actions on the Kagamihara must be dealt with by the individuals primarily concerned with them. But this will allow her to begin the healing process once in school. She won't destroy her abuse until she goes back into the Kagamihara as an adult.
She will be pulled back into it by the necessities of Tenshio's overarching plot line. Which has a kind of poetic symmetry, because it was the same plot line that pulled her into the spirit realm in the first place. The story will begin and end with Tenshio's plot, but Gilly's will be the heart and the weight of it.
She will destroy the abuse by releasing it. Which is beautiful, I think. And true. The spiritual power of her conscious release of the abuse will reverberate all through the Kagamihara, and destroy all of the enemies of the Daitoku-mina.
I framed the pictures of myself as a child. I have three. One is of me in my baptismal gown, in the woman's bathroom in the cellar of the Sanctuary. Every time I look at my face, with my hopeful, eager expression, my hands nervously clasped, my hearts spasms with love and horror both. How desperate I was to be washed clean!
How I longed for absolution, for belonging, for validation. Poor little girl. Life had to tear me apart before I could be put together again, free of all the broken pieces, like jagged glass, that were, at that very moment, in that picture, tormenting me from the inside out. They never allowed me to believe in the things I longed for, no matter how good a girl I was. But even then, Christ was laying the ground work for the healing that would come later.
In the other picture I am only three. The picture is dark and I can hardly see my face. It's a hazy picture, as though I am fading into the background. I know that at some point, either before or after that picture was taken, my abuse began. So it is as though I am fading away. Pieces of me are being leached out. I don't look at this picture too often, it's too hard to look at.
The last picture is one of myself and my mother at Christmas. I think I am about six or seven. I am curled up in the recliner with her, chewing on my fingernails. My eyes look out from over my hand and they are shinning with contentment and some secret amusement. This picture is for my comfort alone and I look at it the most.
I recently found the song "Jewels," sung by Alison Krauss, and I listen to it... I don't even know how many times a day. At least a half dozen. It's so incredibly soothing.
It didn't used to be: when I was a child, all I felt when hearing it was anxiety, since I didn't think I was a pure child. I thought I was a dirty, shameful, bad child. I would sing the song with some kind of desperate hope that in some way, I might get squeaked in with all the other children who were surely better suited to be jewels.
Now I don't feel that cloying sense of dismay and doubt. When I hear the song now, all I think about is how deeply and truly and faithfully Jesus loved that little girl in the baptismal gown. He had plans for her that would extend the length of her life. There would be no escaping His love.
Jewels
When He cometh, when He cometh
To take up his jewels
All his jewels, precious jewels
His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning
His bright crown adorning
They will shine in their beauty
Bright gems for his crown.
He will gather, He will gather
The gems for His kingdom
All the pure ones, all the bright ones
His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning
His bright crown adorning
They will shine in their beauty
Bright gems for his crown.
Little children, little children
Who love their Redeemer
Are the jewels, precious jewels
His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning
His bright crown adorning
They will shine in their beauty
Bright gems for his crown
I am co-writing Torii- it's myself and my inner child. I haven't felt this in touch with my inner child since going through therapy. My inner child has very definite ideas on how her character behaves. She does not mind when I must portray her weaknesses as well as her resiliency and earnest desire to please.
I can put myself into the story that intimately by telling myself that I won't publish it. It's a bare faced lie; I see right through it. I know that I will try to publish it. But I tell myself I won't, when I have pretend in order to write what I know I have to write.
Which makes me think of perhaps my favorite quote of all:
"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." ~Sylvia Plath
I admit, I love it partly because she uses awkward English- writable about? But also because she said much better what I tried to say earlier.
I've written over fifty pages of Torii and all of them are just setting up before the story goes out, over the lip and plunges into the darkness ahead. But it must have that much set up; the wrenching hardships ahead require that the characters form a strong bond of trust and familiarity, or else when it comes time to face the truth Gilly will drown, unable to face what she must.
My ideas on the plot line ahead continue their natural, slow evolution. Gilly cannot completely conclude her business the first trip in Kagamihara. She simply can't; she won't be able to take back her own power until she's an adult. Children are powerless by nature and are handicapped by their dichotomous minds.
I think the first trip down, she will face the truth, and Tenshio will destroy it for her. Which is not a permenent solution- it will regenerate. Evil actions on the Kagamihara must be dealt with by the individuals primarily concerned with them. But this will allow her to begin the healing process once in school. She won't destroy her abuse until she goes back into the Kagamihara as an adult.
She will be pulled back into it by the necessities of Tenshio's overarching plot line. Which has a kind of poetic symmetry, because it was the same plot line that pulled her into the spirit realm in the first place. The story will begin and end with Tenshio's plot, but Gilly's will be the heart and the weight of it.
She will destroy the abuse by releasing it. Which is beautiful, I think. And true. The spiritual power of her conscious release of the abuse will reverberate all through the Kagamihara, and destroy all of the enemies of the Daitoku-mina.
I framed the pictures of myself as a child. I have three. One is of me in my baptismal gown, in the woman's bathroom in the cellar of the Sanctuary. Every time I look at my face, with my hopeful, eager expression, my hands nervously clasped, my hearts spasms with love and horror both. How desperate I was to be washed clean!
How I longed for absolution, for belonging, for validation. Poor little girl. Life had to tear me apart before I could be put together again, free of all the broken pieces, like jagged glass, that were, at that very moment, in that picture, tormenting me from the inside out. They never allowed me to believe in the things I longed for, no matter how good a girl I was. But even then, Christ was laying the ground work for the healing that would come later.
In the other picture I am only three. The picture is dark and I can hardly see my face. It's a hazy picture, as though I am fading into the background. I know that at some point, either before or after that picture was taken, my abuse began. So it is as though I am fading away. Pieces of me are being leached out. I don't look at this picture too often, it's too hard to look at.
The last picture is one of myself and my mother at Christmas. I think I am about six or seven. I am curled up in the recliner with her, chewing on my fingernails. My eyes look out from over my hand and they are shinning with contentment and some secret amusement. This picture is for my comfort alone and I look at it the most.
I recently found the song "Jewels," sung by Alison Krauss, and I listen to it... I don't even know how many times a day. At least a half dozen. It's so incredibly soothing.
It didn't used to be: when I was a child, all I felt when hearing it was anxiety, since I didn't think I was a pure child. I thought I was a dirty, shameful, bad child. I would sing the song with some kind of desperate hope that in some way, I might get squeaked in with all the other children who were surely better suited to be jewels.
Now I don't feel that cloying sense of dismay and doubt. When I hear the song now, all I think about is how deeply and truly and faithfully Jesus loved that little girl in the baptismal gown. He had plans for her that would extend the length of her life. There would be no escaping His love.
Jewels
When He cometh, when He cometh
To take up his jewels
All his jewels, precious jewels
His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning
His bright crown adorning
They will shine in their beauty
Bright gems for his crown.
He will gather, He will gather
The gems for His kingdom
All the pure ones, all the bright ones
His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning
His bright crown adorning
They will shine in their beauty
Bright gems for his crown.
Little children, little children
Who love their Redeemer
Are the jewels, precious jewels
His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning
His bright crown adorning
They will shine in their beauty
Bright gems for his crown
Friday, June 10, 2011
June 10th
Last night the pastor, his wife, a young girl who is the summer missionary and a church deacon dropped by without warning.
I had gone swimming only hours before and my outfit of dirty linen shirt and wrinkled skirt and straggly, damp hair definitely left something to be desired, in terms of an official church visit.
This was nothing compared to Keith, who tends to lounge around the house wearing nothing more than his tan tee shirt and cotton undershorts. I had to go fend the visitors off at the door while Keith hopped around the living room, desperately pulling on his sweaty ACU pants.
Fortunately, the house itself was company ready.
It turns out they go around popping in on people on Thursdays, bearing chocolate chip cookies and goodwill. Outfits aside, it was fun to have company. They are such warm people.
Excerpt: (Rather a long one, but I like this whole scene so much)
The front door of the house slid open, letting out a swath of golden light upon the polished wood of the veranda. A tall figure stood there, outlined in the light.
“Master Tenshio,” said the figure warmly. “What an honor to receive the O-nishi Daitoku at my humble house…” the voice trailed off. “Is that what I think it is?” the figure asked, in a very different sort of voice. The person stepped out of the doorway onto the veranda. “Tenshio, what on earth are you doing with a human child?”
“It’s a very long story,” said Tenshio, his voice tired.
“Please come in,” said Osamu, stepped to the side of the door. The light revealed a round, pale face and long nose on which sat a pair of glasses. He wore a dark gold kimono of glossy, embossed silk, and had what appeared to be a pen stuck behind his ear.
Tenshio stepped up onto the veranda, leaving his sandals on the broad front step. Gilly followed close behind.
“Is it… without shoes?” gasped Osamu in horror. Gilly twisted one filthy sock covered foot on top of the other and hunched her shoulders up. “And why is it dressed like a gardener?”
“This child is a girl,” said Tenshio wearily. “And don’t ask.” He put his hand on Gilly’s shoulder. “Gilly, this is the O-toshokan’in, Master Osamu. You must say, “It is an honor to meet you, Master Osamu.”
“…honor to meet you, Master Oh…mu…” struggled Gilly.
“O-sa-mu,” coached Tenshio.
“Osamu.”
Osamu’s eyes strayed to her socks. “Perhaps I can offer your… child… some clean socks, though I doubt I have any in its… her size.”
“That would be most appreciated,” said Tenshio.
The inside of Osamu’s house was full of golden tatami mats, golden paper lined walls and dark gold polished wood. From the center hall rose an open staircase of this golden wood. Two open doors led off the hall way.
Gilly followed Tenshio and their host into one of the front rooms. The wall at the back of the room was recessed, making an alcove in the center. A delicate ink painting hung in the center of the alcove, above a small, highly polished wooden tray.
The room was empty, other than those objects, and a low, polished stand with curving legs. The long windows facing the valley were opened, giving a view out to the falling, blue green ridge, the shadowed valley below it, and the dark sky above.
Osamu opened a hidden cupboard and produced blue and white cushions which he placed on the floor.
“Should she go to bed?” asked Osamu doubtfully, settling himself cross-legged on the cushion. “Does she drink tea?”
Gilly pushed her cushion up close to Tenshio’s and sat down, her legs folded up to the side. Her disheveled head turned from one creature to the other as they spoke.
“Water for her, thank you,” said Tenshio. “She may sleep soon. She sleeps a great deal.”
Osamu clapped his hands and requested tea and water from the retainer. Gilly was amazed to see that the retainer of this house was a creature quite similar to the white haired, slender ones that had helped and hindered her so often in Tenshio’s house.
“He has the same ones you do!” Gilly whispered to Tenshio.
“They are the Sennyo and they often serve in the houses of my people,” explained Tenshio. “Now, hush. Ask me questions later, if you must.”
“But Tenshio…” she breathed, tugging at his sleeve. A blush suffused his flat cheeks. He closed his eyes, composing his soul in patience to bear the trial set before him.
“Little girl,” he said softly, “how many times must I repeat to you the same thing? You must use my title with my name. It is not fitting for you to call me by my name alone.”
“Sorry,” she breathed, chagrined. She stood on her knees on the cushion and put her mouth close to Tenshio’s ear, her small fingers placed delicately on the heavy silk covering his shoulder. “But I have to use the bathroom…”
Osamu watched the entire interaction in a state of complete stupefaction. His mouth had dropped open and his glasses had slid even further down his nose.
“Please excuse the child,” said Tenshio to him, in a worn voice.
Osamu shook his head vaguely and remembered to close his mouth. “Of course,” he said, faintly, pushing his glasses back into place with one finger. “I will have a retainer show her the way…”
“Go with the retainer, Gilly,” said Tenshio. His voice made clear that he would brook no argument over the matter.
Gilly didn’t argue. When the retainer came, bearing the tea tray, Gilly obediently took the tall creature’s hand and left with her. The toes of Gilly’s borrowed socks flopped upon the floor and gathered in folds around her thin ankles as she went from the room.
“Where in the name of heaven did you come across a human child, Tenshio?” demanded Osamu, as soon as the door had shut behind the two.
He poured a steaming cup of tea into a glazed mug and handed it to Tenshio, and then poured one for himself. “Perhaps some sake would be more welcome,” Osamu added.
“An entire distillery would not suffice,” said Tenshio wryly, rubbing his face with his hand. “If I could return the child to her parents, I would do so. Though,” he added, loyally, “she is a good enough child in her own way.”
He missed the strange look his friend gave him. By the time he had explained the strange particulars of how Gilly had come to be under his guardianship, the child in question was returned, looking pale but resolute.
She had been taken to the outbuilding, which she had faced down with the bravura of sheer necessity, and she had been fed. Her face was damp and red from being washed, and her hair had been taken down, combed and bound tightly back up again. Even her jacket had been straightened and tightened. She had been through the well meaning wringer.
She shuffled across the tatami mats to her cushion and settled down on it, leaning against Tenshio’s arm in relief.
Osamu’s face was pale as well. “But surely you realize that the Ishi no Torii is forbidden to those not called.”
“I am well aware of the edicts concerning that gate,” said Tenshio, tersely. “What I must know is the best way of reaching it.”
Osamu leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His two long forelocks fell loose into his lap, framing his round, earnest face. “I know of some documents that may shed light on the location of the Ishi no Torii, and you are welcome to them. But it’s a great pity that the O-nishi Daitoku should die so soon after obtaining his honored position.”
Gilly had been falling asleep, her eyelids falling heavy over her eyes, but she sat up at that. She looked up at Tenshio in concern.
“Your help is much appreciated,” said Tenshio, bowing from the waist as he sat. “Please excuse us. I think I had best take the child up to the O-minami shrine.”
Osamu’s eyes lit up with relief, but he managed not to show it on the rest of his face. “How sad I am that you cannot stop the night here.”
Tenshio looked at his friend from the corner of his long eye, a glance bright with unspoken amusement. Then he looked down. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I will return in the morning to review the documents you so kindly mentioned.”
“Of course, of course,” said Osamu.
Outside on the veranda, the cool, mountain air revived Gilly. She gravely returned the socks.
“Thank you very much, Master Shamu, for your socks,” she said, holding them out to the suddenly horrified daemon.
“He didn’t like me,” said Gilly, later. Over her shoulder, she could see the lights of the librarian’s house disappear behind the dark trees.
“I never knew it until tonight, but Master Osamu’s weak point is clearly children. If I wished to overthrow him, I need merely bring two or three such with me, and the job would be done. In any case, you cannot expect every individual you meet to find your company appealing, and most especially so if you are bringing dirty feet into their house.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, Master Tenshio.”
I had gone swimming only hours before and my outfit of dirty linen shirt and wrinkled skirt and straggly, damp hair definitely left something to be desired, in terms of an official church visit.
This was nothing compared to Keith, who tends to lounge around the house wearing nothing more than his tan tee shirt and cotton undershorts. I had to go fend the visitors off at the door while Keith hopped around the living room, desperately pulling on his sweaty ACU pants.
Fortunately, the house itself was company ready.
It turns out they go around popping in on people on Thursdays, bearing chocolate chip cookies and goodwill. Outfits aside, it was fun to have company. They are such warm people.
Excerpt: (Rather a long one, but I like this whole scene so much)
The front door of the house slid open, letting out a swath of golden light upon the polished wood of the veranda. A tall figure stood there, outlined in the light.
“Master Tenshio,” said the figure warmly. “What an honor to receive the O-nishi Daitoku at my humble house…” the voice trailed off. “Is that what I think it is?” the figure asked, in a very different sort of voice. The person stepped out of the doorway onto the veranda. “Tenshio, what on earth are you doing with a human child?”
“It’s a very long story,” said Tenshio, his voice tired.
“Please come in,” said Osamu, stepped to the side of the door. The light revealed a round, pale face and long nose on which sat a pair of glasses. He wore a dark gold kimono of glossy, embossed silk, and had what appeared to be a pen stuck behind his ear.
Tenshio stepped up onto the veranda, leaving his sandals on the broad front step. Gilly followed close behind.
“Is it… without shoes?” gasped Osamu in horror. Gilly twisted one filthy sock covered foot on top of the other and hunched her shoulders up. “And why is it dressed like a gardener?”
“This child is a girl,” said Tenshio wearily. “And don’t ask.” He put his hand on Gilly’s shoulder. “Gilly, this is the O-toshokan’in, Master Osamu. You must say, “It is an honor to meet you, Master Osamu.”
“…honor to meet you, Master Oh…mu…” struggled Gilly.
“O-sa-mu,” coached Tenshio.
“Osamu.”
Osamu’s eyes strayed to her socks. “Perhaps I can offer your… child… some clean socks, though I doubt I have any in its… her size.”
“That would be most appreciated,” said Tenshio.
The inside of Osamu’s house was full of golden tatami mats, golden paper lined walls and dark gold polished wood. From the center hall rose an open staircase of this golden wood. Two open doors led off the hall way.
Gilly followed Tenshio and their host into one of the front rooms. The wall at the back of the room was recessed, making an alcove in the center. A delicate ink painting hung in the center of the alcove, above a small, highly polished wooden tray.
The room was empty, other than those objects, and a low, polished stand with curving legs. The long windows facing the valley were opened, giving a view out to the falling, blue green ridge, the shadowed valley below it, and the dark sky above.
Osamu opened a hidden cupboard and produced blue and white cushions which he placed on the floor.
“Should she go to bed?” asked Osamu doubtfully, settling himself cross-legged on the cushion. “Does she drink tea?”
Gilly pushed her cushion up close to Tenshio’s and sat down, her legs folded up to the side. Her disheveled head turned from one creature to the other as they spoke.
“Water for her, thank you,” said Tenshio. “She may sleep soon. She sleeps a great deal.”
Osamu clapped his hands and requested tea and water from the retainer. Gilly was amazed to see that the retainer of this house was a creature quite similar to the white haired, slender ones that had helped and hindered her so often in Tenshio’s house.
“He has the same ones you do!” Gilly whispered to Tenshio.
“They are the Sennyo and they often serve in the houses of my people,” explained Tenshio. “Now, hush. Ask me questions later, if you must.”
“But Tenshio…” she breathed, tugging at his sleeve. A blush suffused his flat cheeks. He closed his eyes, composing his soul in patience to bear the trial set before him.
“Little girl,” he said softly, “how many times must I repeat to you the same thing? You must use my title with my name. It is not fitting for you to call me by my name alone.”
“Sorry,” she breathed, chagrined. She stood on her knees on the cushion and put her mouth close to Tenshio’s ear, her small fingers placed delicately on the heavy silk covering his shoulder. “But I have to use the bathroom…”
Osamu watched the entire interaction in a state of complete stupefaction. His mouth had dropped open and his glasses had slid even further down his nose.
“Please excuse the child,” said Tenshio to him, in a worn voice.
Osamu shook his head vaguely and remembered to close his mouth. “Of course,” he said, faintly, pushing his glasses back into place with one finger. “I will have a retainer show her the way…”
“Go with the retainer, Gilly,” said Tenshio. His voice made clear that he would brook no argument over the matter.
Gilly didn’t argue. When the retainer came, bearing the tea tray, Gilly obediently took the tall creature’s hand and left with her. The toes of Gilly’s borrowed socks flopped upon the floor and gathered in folds around her thin ankles as she went from the room.
“Where in the name of heaven did you come across a human child, Tenshio?” demanded Osamu, as soon as the door had shut behind the two.
He poured a steaming cup of tea into a glazed mug and handed it to Tenshio, and then poured one for himself. “Perhaps some sake would be more welcome,” Osamu added.
“An entire distillery would not suffice,” said Tenshio wryly, rubbing his face with his hand. “If I could return the child to her parents, I would do so. Though,” he added, loyally, “she is a good enough child in her own way.”
He missed the strange look his friend gave him. By the time he had explained the strange particulars of how Gilly had come to be under his guardianship, the child in question was returned, looking pale but resolute.
She had been taken to the outbuilding, which she had faced down with the bravura of sheer necessity, and she had been fed. Her face was damp and red from being washed, and her hair had been taken down, combed and bound tightly back up again. Even her jacket had been straightened and tightened. She had been through the well meaning wringer.
She shuffled across the tatami mats to her cushion and settled down on it, leaning against Tenshio’s arm in relief.
Osamu’s face was pale as well. “But surely you realize that the Ishi no Torii is forbidden to those not called.”
“I am well aware of the edicts concerning that gate,” said Tenshio, tersely. “What I must know is the best way of reaching it.”
Osamu leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His two long forelocks fell loose into his lap, framing his round, earnest face. “I know of some documents that may shed light on the location of the Ishi no Torii, and you are welcome to them. But it’s a great pity that the O-nishi Daitoku should die so soon after obtaining his honored position.”
Gilly had been falling asleep, her eyelids falling heavy over her eyes, but she sat up at that. She looked up at Tenshio in concern.
“Your help is much appreciated,” said Tenshio, bowing from the waist as he sat. “Please excuse us. I think I had best take the child up to the O-minami shrine.”
Osamu’s eyes lit up with relief, but he managed not to show it on the rest of his face. “How sad I am that you cannot stop the night here.”
Tenshio looked at his friend from the corner of his long eye, a glance bright with unspoken amusement. Then he looked down. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I will return in the morning to review the documents you so kindly mentioned.”
“Of course, of course,” said Osamu.
Outside on the veranda, the cool, mountain air revived Gilly. She gravely returned the socks.
“Thank you very much, Master Shamu, for your socks,” she said, holding them out to the suddenly horrified daemon.
“He didn’t like me,” said Gilly, later. Over her shoulder, she could see the lights of the librarian’s house disappear behind the dark trees.
“I never knew it until tonight, but Master Osamu’s weak point is clearly children. If I wished to overthrow him, I need merely bring two or three such with me, and the job would be done. In any case, you cannot expect every individual you meet to find your company appealing, and most especially so if you are bringing dirty feet into their house.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, Master Tenshio.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
June 9th, later
I know, I know. I just posted. But then I was procrastinating on my writing by looking up quotes for my facebook page- which is very important, you know. How will people know how clever I am if I don't have clever quotes displayed on my facebook page?- and I came across several gems.
Clearly, one of them is now underlying my blog title, because, my god, how true it is and it made me laugh out loud.
Here's another one:
Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"
Clearly, one of them is now underlying my blog title, because, my god, how true it is and it made me laugh out loud.
Here's another one:
Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"
June 9th
I have sewn Torii back together and now must move it forward.
Torii: (rewritten)
She woke. Above her head danced scores of tiny, pale lights. They danced silently around her, turning her face a ghostly pale green. The lights shone on the grass papered walls and on the smooth weave of the mats that lined the floor. Lights glimmered all up and down her coverlet.
The room was empty but for the lights and the girl. The lamp burned still in its corner and outside the window, the mist had moved further up the mountain. Above the mist, the white stars shone in the dark sky. Little lights were bobbing amid the branches of the cedar tree close to the open window.
The girl’s large, heavily lashed eyes were cloudy and glazed. She blinked slowly, her head tipping to the side as she watched the lights in wonder. The sweat had dried on her face and the pain had receded from her back. She felt numb, as if she were floating in phosphorescent sea.
Her bandaged chest rose and fell as she breathed deeply and slowly through her half open mouth. A little glowing light hovered for a moment over her lips. The girl took a breath and the light slipped in with it. She felt warmth at the back of her throat and swallowed convulsively. The warmth spread into her stomach and dissolved all the way to her fingers and toes.
The master of the house felt the slight ripple and change in energy. He lifted his head from where he sat cross-legged, bathed and newly dressed, in the upper room. He uncoiled himself from the ground and moved with incredible swiftness out of the room and down the stairs, causing the lamps to flicker and bend as he passed.
He slid the door to the girl’s room open and all the glowing lights blew out the open window on the tide of air, like dandelion spores in a spring wind. The creature knelt down beside her bed, his eyes wide with consternation. Gently, he placed the palm of his hand against her throat, keeping the curving tips of his claws away from the thin skin.
Immediately, the girl felt light headed. She felt as though she were being pulled up from her very roots, as though her muscles longed to separate from her bones. She closed her eyes against the strain.
The creature released her abruptly, an expression of horror on his face.
“What have you done?” he asked in dismay. His voice was deeply pitched, resonant in the cool air and precisely articulated.
The girl faced the growing realization that this was not a dream. Her eyes were focused now, and wide open in shock. Her hands flew up to her chest, they curled up under her chin as her eyes flew around the room and then back to the pale, inhuman face that was leaning over her with its goat’s eyes.
“I cannot draw it out,” said the creature, accepting the inevitable. He leaned back on his heels and lifted his eyes to the open window. The golden eyes shut for a moment. He put his hand to his forehead, took in a long, slow breath and let it out. There was now a long, arduous road that stretched out before him; he saw it clearly.
The girl struggled up onto her elbows and the creature opened his eyes again.
“No,” he said sternly. “Lie still.”
The little girl looked up at him, her head tipped on the side, her breathing quickened by awe. It was not surprising to her that she saw a living piece of terrible wonder kneeling beside her, and speaking.
The creature appeared very large to her, but she confusing its presence with its physical size. It was just slightly larger than an adult human, but it gave off so much heat and energy that it appeared much larger than it was. She could feel its presence like heat on her cheeks, like a heaviness in her lungs. The slanted, golden eyes radiated a fierce, feral energy.
The creature was the incarnation of strangely cast shadows, of the wind that came out of the dark sky, of opaque water under the surface of smoothly rippling light. This creature was well known to her; she had simply never seen its face before.
“I’m Gilly,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The creature sighed deeply and looked at the child, his eyes turning rueful. “My name is Tenshio. You lie in my house, in the mountains of the O-nishi shrine. But no more talking,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Later, there will be time enough, and more, for questions.”
He leaned over her and firmly shut the window, closing out the blue twilight.
Torii: (rewritten)
She woke. Above her head danced scores of tiny, pale lights. They danced silently around her, turning her face a ghostly pale green. The lights shone on the grass papered walls and on the smooth weave of the mats that lined the floor. Lights glimmered all up and down her coverlet.
The room was empty but for the lights and the girl. The lamp burned still in its corner and outside the window, the mist had moved further up the mountain. Above the mist, the white stars shone in the dark sky. Little lights were bobbing amid the branches of the cedar tree close to the open window.
The girl’s large, heavily lashed eyes were cloudy and glazed. She blinked slowly, her head tipping to the side as she watched the lights in wonder. The sweat had dried on her face and the pain had receded from her back. She felt numb, as if she were floating in phosphorescent sea.
Her bandaged chest rose and fell as she breathed deeply and slowly through her half open mouth. A little glowing light hovered for a moment over her lips. The girl took a breath and the light slipped in with it. She felt warmth at the back of her throat and swallowed convulsively. The warmth spread into her stomach and dissolved all the way to her fingers and toes.
The master of the house felt the slight ripple and change in energy. He lifted his head from where he sat cross-legged, bathed and newly dressed, in the upper room. He uncoiled himself from the ground and moved with incredible swiftness out of the room and down the stairs, causing the lamps to flicker and bend as he passed.
He slid the door to the girl’s room open and all the glowing lights blew out the open window on the tide of air, like dandelion spores in a spring wind. The creature knelt down beside her bed, his eyes wide with consternation. Gently, he placed the palm of his hand against her throat, keeping the curving tips of his claws away from the thin skin.
Immediately, the girl felt light headed. She felt as though she were being pulled up from her very roots, as though her muscles longed to separate from her bones. She closed her eyes against the strain.
The creature released her abruptly, an expression of horror on his face.
“What have you done?” he asked in dismay. His voice was deeply pitched, resonant in the cool air and precisely articulated.
The girl faced the growing realization that this was not a dream. Her eyes were focused now, and wide open in shock. Her hands flew up to her chest, they curled up under her chin as her eyes flew around the room and then back to the pale, inhuman face that was leaning over her with its goat’s eyes.
“I cannot draw it out,” said the creature, accepting the inevitable. He leaned back on his heels and lifted his eyes to the open window. The golden eyes shut for a moment. He put his hand to his forehead, took in a long, slow breath and let it out. There was now a long, arduous road that stretched out before him; he saw it clearly.
The girl struggled up onto her elbows and the creature opened his eyes again.
“No,” he said sternly. “Lie still.”
The little girl looked up at him, her head tipped on the side, her breathing quickened by awe. It was not surprising to her that she saw a living piece of terrible wonder kneeling beside her, and speaking.
The creature appeared very large to her, but she confusing its presence with its physical size. It was just slightly larger than an adult human, but it gave off so much heat and energy that it appeared much larger than it was. She could feel its presence like heat on her cheeks, like a heaviness in her lungs. The slanted, golden eyes radiated a fierce, feral energy.
The creature was the incarnation of strangely cast shadows, of the wind that came out of the dark sky, of opaque water under the surface of smoothly rippling light. This creature was well known to her; she had simply never seen its face before.
“I’m Gilly,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The creature sighed deeply and looked at the child, his eyes turning rueful. “My name is Tenshio. You lie in my house, in the mountains of the O-nishi shrine. But no more talking,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Later, there will be time enough, and more, for questions.”
He leaned over her and firmly shut the window, closing out the blue twilight.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
June 7th
Last night I learned that when cooking bacon for BLTs, I must be sure to have snacks handy with which to fend off the hungry and marauding husband who will inevitably come round to prowl the kitchen, seeking what he can devour.
Mine managed to make off with a piece of raw onion (He likes that stuff; it's the farm boy in him), a small packet of Cool Ranch Doritos and a piece of bacon snatched off the pan and still so hot that he could only take one bite before hopping around and blowing.
He also paused to fiddle around with my stove and burners, which was the last straw. At that point, he was unceremoniously ousted from my domain. He has these crazy theories about "simmering." Simmering, to him, means turning off the source of heat and letting the food get cold and undercooked while saving energy.
I had to sew a patch onto his overalls, which are officially called something I can't remember. It's an acronym, naturally. He hadn't worn them since his promotion...gosh. That was two years ago. He passed the board right before he deployed.
Anyhow, he had to wear them today, because he is going to be demonstrating the capabilities of an older model tank for a foreign general (and his American general escort) who is thinking of purchasing some. I think it's pretty awesome my husband was given this assignment.
He went through a dry run yesterday and came home so exhausted that he fell asleep in the middle of watching his movie and I didn't catch him until way too late. I was reading. By the time I put my book down and went to investigate, he'd been asleep for hours.
After five minutes, I very nearly went and got water to pour over him. I really thought about it. He kept opening his eyes, grinning and then toppling slowly back over onto the couch. I thought he was pulling my leg. I kept threatening dire consequences if he was joking.
He'd be all, "Wait! Wait! Calm down. Why can't we talk about this?" and then slowly side back down and I'd have to grab the shoulder of his tee shirt and jerk him upright again. I finally got him to stumble off to the bed. I would have left him there, but I know he gets very anxious if he isn't next to his alarm clock. He's never, ever been late to work since he signed up. Not once.
When he actually did wake up, in the middle of the night, he was amazed, and couldn't remember a thing. I got a lot of loving kisses for my hard work and before he left this morning, he gathered me up in his arms and told me I was a good kitten.
Boy, was I ever right about making that change to Torii. Which prompted me to come up with one of those sayings that sound more wise than they really are: only two things are necessary to create a story- the audacity to write your guts out and the determination to rewrite the hell out of that.
Mine managed to make off with a piece of raw onion (He likes that stuff; it's the farm boy in him), a small packet of Cool Ranch Doritos and a piece of bacon snatched off the pan and still so hot that he could only take one bite before hopping around and blowing.
He also paused to fiddle around with my stove and burners, which was the last straw. At that point, he was unceremoniously ousted from my domain. He has these crazy theories about "simmering." Simmering, to him, means turning off the source of heat and letting the food get cold and undercooked while saving energy.
I had to sew a patch onto his overalls, which are officially called something I can't remember. It's an acronym, naturally. He hadn't worn them since his promotion...gosh. That was two years ago. He passed the board right before he deployed.
Anyhow, he had to wear them today, because he is going to be demonstrating the capabilities of an older model tank for a foreign general (and his American general escort) who is thinking of purchasing some. I think it's pretty awesome my husband was given this assignment.
He went through a dry run yesterday and came home so exhausted that he fell asleep in the middle of watching his movie and I didn't catch him until way too late. I was reading. By the time I put my book down and went to investigate, he'd been asleep for hours.
After five minutes, I very nearly went and got water to pour over him. I really thought about it. He kept opening his eyes, grinning and then toppling slowly back over onto the couch. I thought he was pulling my leg. I kept threatening dire consequences if he was joking.
He'd be all, "Wait! Wait! Calm down. Why can't we talk about this?" and then slowly side back down and I'd have to grab the shoulder of his tee shirt and jerk him upright again. I finally got him to stumble off to the bed. I would have left him there, but I know he gets very anxious if he isn't next to his alarm clock. He's never, ever been late to work since he signed up. Not once.
When he actually did wake up, in the middle of the night, he was amazed, and couldn't remember a thing. I got a lot of loving kisses for my hard work and before he left this morning, he gathered me up in his arms and told me I was a good kitten.
Boy, was I ever right about making that change to Torii. Which prompted me to come up with one of those sayings that sound more wise than they really are: only two things are necessary to create a story- the audacity to write your guts out and the determination to rewrite the hell out of that.
Monday, June 6, 2011
June 6th
I just butchered Torii, people. And by butchered, I mean drawn and quartered.
I literally just tore it apart. It now resides in three different files. One is labeled story rejects, one is for later use and one is what remains of the story.
Why would I do this?
I'll tell you. I got a much better idea concerning the beginning sequence of the story. What can a writer do at that point? Three things, it seems to me.
One: Ignore your better idea and keep following down the original, not-as-good idea. But I tend to think this road might get more and more narrow and destitute, until it's a mere track through the dense woods and then it's a trail of bread crumbs and then you're just lost in the woods.
Two: Start from scratch, completely. So much work.
Three: Disembowel your story and then repair, restore and move on. Also so much freakin' work, but not so heart breaking as option two.
Sigh. It makes my head hurt, moving around all those chunks of story, which are now just floating free, unanchored and bewildered.
The old beginning sequence was too full of far fetched circumstances. It just bothered me. But sometimes, a person just has to dive in, so I dove in the best way I knew how at the time.
This leaves a crooked trail to straighten later, but if I waited until I had everything figured out, I'd never start. I'd make myself too nervous and I wouldn't know enough about the story yet. Sometimes, I have to write the wrong thing before I can figure out what the right thing is.
I've gotten better at this, the more I write. I hear myself say, "That is crazy. That is overused. That is too emotional. That is wrong. That is unbelievable. That doesn't make sense. That doesn't fit. That's too raw." Etc, etc, etc.
I've learned to just ignore this voice, because I have another voice. Only that voice not so articulate. It's a feeling, a deep seated weight, a vision that I don't know how to get to yet. I just go ahead and write my little heart out. I know I can go back later and straighten it out.
I do have a plot line file for this story, and when I get to certain points, I open it up and hammer out the general idea of what I think might be happening next.
Various things continue to be a mystery to me. Tenshio has his own plot line to follow. How his plot line intersects with the plot of returning Gilly to the mortal world is still uncertain. Do I want them completely interlacing, or one after the other, with an interlude between? I think this will make itself more clear as I go along, especially as I take my characters down into the Kagamihara.
I like my new idea; I think it's much more solid and it fits in and enhances the growing theme and feeling of the story. So, I'm sure it will be worth it, but poor old Torii!- all those pieces of story that are just severed and now will slowly wither and die, never to be read, unneeded, their poetry unheard. They will live on a story ghosts in obsolete computer files, and subjected to my occasional visits, so that I can chop off little pieces of them for use somewhere else, like some sort of story cannibalism.
I have to go vacuum. Darn dog hair.
I literally just tore it apart. It now resides in three different files. One is labeled story rejects, one is for later use and one is what remains of the story.
Why would I do this?
I'll tell you. I got a much better idea concerning the beginning sequence of the story. What can a writer do at that point? Three things, it seems to me.
One: Ignore your better idea and keep following down the original, not-as-good idea. But I tend to think this road might get more and more narrow and destitute, until it's a mere track through the dense woods and then it's a trail of bread crumbs and then you're just lost in the woods.
Two: Start from scratch, completely. So much work.
Three: Disembowel your story and then repair, restore and move on. Also so much freakin' work, but not so heart breaking as option two.
Sigh. It makes my head hurt, moving around all those chunks of story, which are now just floating free, unanchored and bewildered.
The old beginning sequence was too full of far fetched circumstances. It just bothered me. But sometimes, a person just has to dive in, so I dove in the best way I knew how at the time.
This leaves a crooked trail to straighten later, but if I waited until I had everything figured out, I'd never start. I'd make myself too nervous and I wouldn't know enough about the story yet. Sometimes, I have to write the wrong thing before I can figure out what the right thing is.
I've gotten better at this, the more I write. I hear myself say, "That is crazy. That is overused. That is too emotional. That is wrong. That is unbelievable. That doesn't make sense. That doesn't fit. That's too raw." Etc, etc, etc.
I've learned to just ignore this voice, because I have another voice. Only that voice not so articulate. It's a feeling, a deep seated weight, a vision that I don't know how to get to yet. I just go ahead and write my little heart out. I know I can go back later and straighten it out.
I do have a plot line file for this story, and when I get to certain points, I open it up and hammer out the general idea of what I think might be happening next.
Various things continue to be a mystery to me. Tenshio has his own plot line to follow. How his plot line intersects with the plot of returning Gilly to the mortal world is still uncertain. Do I want them completely interlacing, or one after the other, with an interlude between? I think this will make itself more clear as I go along, especially as I take my characters down into the Kagamihara.
I like my new idea; I think it's much more solid and it fits in and enhances the growing theme and feeling of the story. So, I'm sure it will be worth it, but poor old Torii!- all those pieces of story that are just severed and now will slowly wither and die, never to be read, unneeded, their poetry unheard. They will live on a story ghosts in obsolete computer files, and subjected to my occasional visits, so that I can chop off little pieces of them for use somewhere else, like some sort of story cannibalism.
I have to go vacuum. Darn dog hair.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
June 5th
I get up at six thirty in the morning now. Still, the sun comes up too soon and causes all the air to thicken. The street lights go out, one by one, as the blue shadows thin. The sky grows ominously white and then gold and pink and then the sun is there, hot and brazen, above the line of trees that shade the highway.
I can't seem to get up early enough to escape it. When I arrive back at the house, I smell like a swamp. The small of my back is covered by a sheet of sweat, as though water had been poured over the back of my shoulders. My face is hot to the touch and I have to plunge it under cold water, again and again, to get it to cool down.
Keith is normally out all day long, in the motor pool, a vast expanse of shimmering heat, rows and rows of tanks and Bradleys and little, low buildings far off in the distance, like a mirage. He came home one day doubled up with heat cramps and had to hobble around the house to try and walk them out. I almost took him to the hospital.
Torii:
When Daiki returned, Gilly steeled herself for the ordeal. She was lifted again onto his smooth, ridged back, just behind the dragon’s front legs, where his elbow joint jutted up. She was breathing quickly, her stomach already in knots.
“Be calm,” urged Tenshio, when she clutched at him. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
Gilly did as he said, her eyes tightly screwed shut. When Daiki lifted his body from the ground, Gilly breathed deeply in through her nose and when his body swooped down, she let the air out of her mouth.
In and out, she thought to herself. Up and down. Like swinging all by herself: the lift, head back, hair falling loose, and then the fall, curled in, knees up tight. She was doing it, she realized, elated. She was managing. She opened her eyes.
The sky stretched out endlessly in front of her: a vast, dusky blue expanse that grew lighter the farther out it reached. At the farthest point, the horizon was a golden, dimly glowing line where there were no stars.
The wind whipped her hair into her face and pulled at the arms of her kimono, but she was held securely against Tenshio by his right arm. The warm body of the dragon below her rose and fell in a steady rhythm; its predictability reassured her. They were twisting through the sky like a ribbon.
“What is that?” she called, pointing toward the dim, glowing horizon.
“That is the Kagamihara; the Mirrored Plains.”
“What's that?”
“The place where your world casts its reflection into this realm.”
She thought about this for a moment. “How come?”
“Why, child, why," he coached her. “It was created for that purpose.”
“Why?”
“That lesson is far beyond your years.”
“Did God create this world?”
“What other being can create a world?”
Behind Tenshio, a vast white and blue mountain was falling away into a blue hazed distance. The tip of the mountain was lost in white clouds that obscured the stars there. The mountains around them and ahead of them were darker, thickly wooded and not as high.
“How come we don’t know about you?” Gilly asked.
“Why," he repeated. "For mortal beings, there are limits set on knowledge. The whole truth dwells only in the Sacred Realm.”
“That’s heaven?”
“Yes.”
“God lives there?”
“God inhabits His entire creation.”
“Is that the same God as in my world?”
“Yes, child. I see that you must be feeling better,” he said dryly, looking down at her.
“It’s like swinging,” Gilly said, confidently. “And I don’t look down… Oh!” A twist of wind took her sandal and fluttered it out of sight in the dark. She clutched at Tenshio and then peered cautiously around him. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“It took my sandal.” She shook her other foot and let the sandal be blown off that one as well. She felt a little rush of satisfaction.
“Gilly!” Tenshio turned in time to see the last of his mountain slip into shadow behind them. His sharp eyes could also make out the tiny, tumbling piece of woven straw as it fell through the leagues of sky, already a great distance away.
“Are you always this much trouble?” he asked, resigned.
“No,” whispered Gilly, wounded.
I can't seem to get up early enough to escape it. When I arrive back at the house, I smell like a swamp. The small of my back is covered by a sheet of sweat, as though water had been poured over the back of my shoulders. My face is hot to the touch and I have to plunge it under cold water, again and again, to get it to cool down.
Keith is normally out all day long, in the motor pool, a vast expanse of shimmering heat, rows and rows of tanks and Bradleys and little, low buildings far off in the distance, like a mirage. He came home one day doubled up with heat cramps and had to hobble around the house to try and walk them out. I almost took him to the hospital.
Torii:
When Daiki returned, Gilly steeled herself for the ordeal. She was lifted again onto his smooth, ridged back, just behind the dragon’s front legs, where his elbow joint jutted up. She was breathing quickly, her stomach already in knots.
“Be calm,” urged Tenshio, when she clutched at him. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
Gilly did as he said, her eyes tightly screwed shut. When Daiki lifted his body from the ground, Gilly breathed deeply in through her nose and when his body swooped down, she let the air out of her mouth.
In and out, she thought to herself. Up and down. Like swinging all by herself: the lift, head back, hair falling loose, and then the fall, curled in, knees up tight. She was doing it, she realized, elated. She was managing. She opened her eyes.
The sky stretched out endlessly in front of her: a vast, dusky blue expanse that grew lighter the farther out it reached. At the farthest point, the horizon was a golden, dimly glowing line where there were no stars.
The wind whipped her hair into her face and pulled at the arms of her kimono, but she was held securely against Tenshio by his right arm. The warm body of the dragon below her rose and fell in a steady rhythm; its predictability reassured her. They were twisting through the sky like a ribbon.
“What is that?” she called, pointing toward the dim, glowing horizon.
“That is the Kagamihara; the Mirrored Plains.”
“What's that?”
“The place where your world casts its reflection into this realm.”
She thought about this for a moment. “How come?”
“Why, child, why," he coached her. “It was created for that purpose.”
“Why?”
“That lesson is far beyond your years.”
“Did God create this world?”
“What other being can create a world?”
Behind Tenshio, a vast white and blue mountain was falling away into a blue hazed distance. The tip of the mountain was lost in white clouds that obscured the stars there. The mountains around them and ahead of them were darker, thickly wooded and not as high.
“How come we don’t know about you?” Gilly asked.
“Why," he repeated. "For mortal beings, there are limits set on knowledge. The whole truth dwells only in the Sacred Realm.”
“That’s heaven?”
“Yes.”
“God lives there?”
“God inhabits His entire creation.”
“Is that the same God as in my world?”
“Yes, child. I see that you must be feeling better,” he said dryly, looking down at her.
“It’s like swinging,” Gilly said, confidently. “And I don’t look down… Oh!” A twist of wind took her sandal and fluttered it out of sight in the dark. She clutched at Tenshio and then peered cautiously around him. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“It took my sandal.” She shook her other foot and let the sandal be blown off that one as well. She felt a little rush of satisfaction.
“Gilly!” Tenshio turned in time to see the last of his mountain slip into shadow behind them. His sharp eyes could also make out the tiny, tumbling piece of woven straw as it fell through the leagues of sky, already a great distance away.
“Are you always this much trouble?” he asked, resigned.
“No,” whispered Gilly, wounded.
Friday, June 3, 2011
June 3rd
Oh boy. This whole, having finished my story thing, it's a whole new world of pain. Of pride, yes. But holy crap. I never thought, not really, that I would be seriously thinking of submitting a story until I was in my mid forties or fifties- another words, a person so distant from the current me that the projected me was a complete stranger, a complete transformation.
She, this future me, would be blissfully confident and serene and wise and gifted. She would be a good driver, too, by the way, and might even clip coupons. But most of all, she would be a professional in her writing. She would have professional contacts and know her way around the publishing business, or at least her tiny corner of it.
But it turns out that I didn't wait around to become that person. That or I'm in the painful process of becoming some version of her- the non coupon clipping version, no doubt. And I'll never be a good driver. I'm resigned to that now; age will only make that worse.
I forgot about the becoming part.
Furthermore, Keith is investing money into my writing. He believes in me. That is so breathtakingly terrifying. We are going to buy Microsoft Word, so I won't write anymore on the funky Microsoft Works Word Processor, which produces documents that no one else can open and if they do, it's with weird punctuation. And we are getting a new copier and lots of paper.
Some publishers accept electronic submissions and some do not, so I expect to go through a fair amount of ink and paper while copying out three hundred pages however many times, since I will be sending it out to multiple people. Mostly agents, I think.
I am just going to try and take it one day at a time. I know it may sound strange, but yesterday, the entire day was almost swallowed by anxiety. It took up weight in my head; it was like I was twenty pounds heavier than I normally am. But a thing I have learned in life is that often, the greater the resistance to an action or an idea, the greater the benefit of pushing through to achieve it.
I don't know if this is a spiritual thing or a metaphysical thing or what, but it just seems to be true. The thing I want the least to do, the thing I think I cannot do, is fairly often the thing that serves me best in doing.
But I want to be careful in saying that, because I don't mean suffering for suffering's sake is good. I don't believe in that, not for a minute. But pushing through suffering, whether it comes from anxiety or depression or grief, or what have you, in pursuit of freedom or greater perspective or some other higher goal, that seems to be always worth doing.
Anyway, my prior life experience tells me that I should just push through and once through this, I'm going to reach some place I will like to be. I just anticipate it taking so long. Months of waiting to hear back from people. Lots of rejection, and then trying to find the courage to send it out again.
And then maybe it does get published, and drops like a stone without a ripple. A failed first book. No one will take a chance on my second one. Or else I'll get awful reviews: "Insipid and poorly thought out." "Tired ideas." "Weak plot lines and characters no one can relate to."
And so on and so forth. I hate living in my own head sometimes. I wish I could take a break and live in someone else's for a little while, a nice little summer vacation.
Anyway, putting the anxiety and feelings of inadequacy firmly aside, I am very proud of my story. I have been rereading it, preparatory to sending it out to be edited, and it amazes me. I see all the layers and layers of work that I put into it. I see what I first wrote, just a slender thread, and I see how I fattened it up and untangled and unwound it, and unwound it, and unwound it, until it stretched out and came round full circle.
And I wonder. Where does it come from, a story? I didn't know where I was going, when I started. But not only was I going in an interesting direction, but it's all tightly woven, with repeating themes, like the sense of home and our sense of time and how we make peace with our past. And then it came around full circle, and ended up where it began, but with a sense of fulfillment, self awareness and peace.
I did not sit down and think, that's what I'm going to write. All I thought was, I like these characters and I want to spend time with them. That's it- that's all I was thinking.
It's like the creative endeavor links us closely to the invisible mystery at the heart of life. It pulls into being the truth that was hidden inside, that we didn't know we carried. That is the most awesome part of writing, in the old fashioned sense of the word.
And then, my friends, I think about the story I'm writing now. If Torii expands and takes on weight and theme in the same way that the Ceallach story did, then that story is going to be breathtaking. But I can't think about that too much, because if I do, the weight of my expectation will crush my ability to work on it.
She, this future me, would be blissfully confident and serene and wise and gifted. She would be a good driver, too, by the way, and might even clip coupons. But most of all, she would be a professional in her writing. She would have professional contacts and know her way around the publishing business, or at least her tiny corner of it.
But it turns out that I didn't wait around to become that person. That or I'm in the painful process of becoming some version of her- the non coupon clipping version, no doubt. And I'll never be a good driver. I'm resigned to that now; age will only make that worse.
I forgot about the becoming part.
Furthermore, Keith is investing money into my writing. He believes in me. That is so breathtakingly terrifying. We are going to buy Microsoft Word, so I won't write anymore on the funky Microsoft Works Word Processor, which produces documents that no one else can open and if they do, it's with weird punctuation. And we are getting a new copier and lots of paper.
Some publishers accept electronic submissions and some do not, so I expect to go through a fair amount of ink and paper while copying out three hundred pages however many times, since I will be sending it out to multiple people. Mostly agents, I think.
I am just going to try and take it one day at a time. I know it may sound strange, but yesterday, the entire day was almost swallowed by anxiety. It took up weight in my head; it was like I was twenty pounds heavier than I normally am. But a thing I have learned in life is that often, the greater the resistance to an action or an idea, the greater the benefit of pushing through to achieve it.
I don't know if this is a spiritual thing or a metaphysical thing or what, but it just seems to be true. The thing I want the least to do, the thing I think I cannot do, is fairly often the thing that serves me best in doing.
But I want to be careful in saying that, because I don't mean suffering for suffering's sake is good. I don't believe in that, not for a minute. But pushing through suffering, whether it comes from anxiety or depression or grief, or what have you, in pursuit of freedom or greater perspective or some other higher goal, that seems to be always worth doing.
Anyway, my prior life experience tells me that I should just push through and once through this, I'm going to reach some place I will like to be. I just anticipate it taking so long. Months of waiting to hear back from people. Lots of rejection, and then trying to find the courage to send it out again.
And then maybe it does get published, and drops like a stone without a ripple. A failed first book. No one will take a chance on my second one. Or else I'll get awful reviews: "Insipid and poorly thought out." "Tired ideas." "Weak plot lines and characters no one can relate to."
And so on and so forth. I hate living in my own head sometimes. I wish I could take a break and live in someone else's for a little while, a nice little summer vacation.
Anyway, putting the anxiety and feelings of inadequacy firmly aside, I am very proud of my story. I have been rereading it, preparatory to sending it out to be edited, and it amazes me. I see all the layers and layers of work that I put into it. I see what I first wrote, just a slender thread, and I see how I fattened it up and untangled and unwound it, and unwound it, and unwound it, until it stretched out and came round full circle.
And I wonder. Where does it come from, a story? I didn't know where I was going, when I started. But not only was I going in an interesting direction, but it's all tightly woven, with repeating themes, like the sense of home and our sense of time and how we make peace with our past. And then it came around full circle, and ended up where it began, but with a sense of fulfillment, self awareness and peace.
I did not sit down and think, that's what I'm going to write. All I thought was, I like these characters and I want to spend time with them. That's it- that's all I was thinking.
It's like the creative endeavor links us closely to the invisible mystery at the heart of life. It pulls into being the truth that was hidden inside, that we didn't know we carried. That is the most awesome part of writing, in the old fashioned sense of the word.
And then, my friends, I think about the story I'm writing now. If Torii expands and takes on weight and theme in the same way that the Ceallach story did, then that story is going to be breathtaking. But I can't think about that too much, because if I do, the weight of my expectation will crush my ability to work on it.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
June 1st
Rabbit.
Today I finished the Ceallach story. I just finished it, actually, like, five minutes ago. I kept this one scene from way back, before I'd added the third part to the story, because I just had a feeling about it, you know? And I was right. It was the last scene. And it works perfectly.
And guess what? The last section has a little over sixty pages, so that its length mirrors the first section. Oh, yes. That happened.
Now I'm putting that story to bed for a while. I'm going to let it stew. I have to proof read the several pages that just wrote themselves so smoothly today, for the obvious errors they inevitably contain, and then I'm sending it out to be read.
Oh, the upcoming agony.
But I guess that'll just be a warm up for when I send it out in manuscript form, to hopefully be published.
I'm just filled with adrenalin right now. I should have jogged this morning; it would have taken the edge off.
Today I finished the Ceallach story. I just finished it, actually, like, five minutes ago. I kept this one scene from way back, before I'd added the third part to the story, because I just had a feeling about it, you know? And I was right. It was the last scene. And it works perfectly.
And guess what? The last section has a little over sixty pages, so that its length mirrors the first section. Oh, yes. That happened.
Now I'm putting that story to bed for a while. I'm going to let it stew. I have to proof read the several pages that just wrote themselves so smoothly today, for the obvious errors they inevitably contain, and then I'm sending it out to be read.
Oh, the upcoming agony.
But I guess that'll just be a warm up for when I send it out in manuscript form, to hopefully be published.
I'm just filled with adrenalin right now. I should have jogged this morning; it would have taken the edge off.
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